


Smile, The Worst Is Yet To Come

by goldenicarus



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Anal Sex, Father-Son Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Religious Content, Slow West AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenicarus/pseuds/goldenicarus
Summary: Once upon a time, a nineteen year old kid traveled from the cold shoulder of Germany to the baking heart of America to find his love.His name was Kurt - and his name was Scott.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enterprising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterprising/gifts).



> Some depictions of violence - nothing graphic.
> 
> Spoilers for the movie "Slow West"
> 
> Main ship in this fic: Scottkurt  
> Side ships: Cherik and Betsy/Warren
> 
> Huge thanks to Megan (Enterprising) for helping with the scene that makes this fic rated E

Colorado was different at night. Not hot, as the state was when the sun rose above the mountains. But not cold, like Bavaria when rain dispersed from its sky. No, Colorado was far from Bavaria. America itself was a different world from Germany.

German skies were nearly never this clear at night nor day; Kurt Wagner would have rarely been able to stare through the treeline and up into the starlit heaven.

“Pegasus. The Great Bear. The Dragon. Andromeda.”

A nightly recital. Naming each constellation he knew by heart, from what he’d been able to see from his window or field. He can’t quite recall when he began the recitation - if it had been before or after he’d come to America. But he had his reasons to perform it each night; the stars help him remember why he’s here. Why he’s lying on this blanket, clothed in only his suit, with his pistol held close to his chest.

He lifts his gun up to the sky, aiming it nowhere in particular, and cocks his hand back in a fake shot. And he does so again and again, making soft sounds on each pretend fire, until a star appears behind the muzzle, completing the constellation he’s stayed awake for. He smiles to himself.

“Orion’s Belt.”

Kurt stows away his gun and tucks his wallet into the inside of his suit. When he turns onto his side and shuts his eyes to rest, the smile has yet to leave his lips.

~~~

When the first light of dawn intensifies from behind the forests’ leaves, Kurt’s already awake and rolling his blanket up. Just like daily procedure, he reattaches his bags to his horse, pets its neck, and climbs up onto the saddle.

“Come on, _Nacht-Crawler_.” He speaks to the stallion, and his ears perk up at his name. Kurt checks once more that all his items are secured before kicking the horse into motion.

His horse is laden with many bags, cases, blankets, and boxes; Kurt reaches into a bag that hangs near his right leg and pulls out a small wooden box, lifting the lid up to reveal a compass. Watching the needle, he turns Nacht-Crawler in the direction of west.

He rides awkwardly through the trees, holding the compass aloft and he ducks under branches and brushes fallen leaves from his hair.

The compass leads him out of the woodland and into an open grass prairie. The sun now beats down against his back without the cover of trees. Strange structures lie in the distance, and only grow larger as he continues moving forward. He halts Nacht-Crawler when he finally makes out the objects clearly - dotted across the prairie, bodies wrapped in cloth lie on stilts facing the sky, each adorned with feathers and beads.

A Native burial ground. A happy hunting ground.

Kurt weaves through the structures and past a group of native women, still preparing dead bodies of men. Kurt rides by with hesitation. The women ignore him.

The prairie bleeds into another forest across the way, but a line of native women and children momentarily block the entrance. The finale native, carrying a baby, looks Kurt’s way as she passes. He avoids her eyes, and instead focuses on the child. He frowns at the sight - the child’s small, too small for one her age, and the clothes on her back are nothing more than rags. But he rides on with a pang of regret, bringing his compass out again to continue west.

The further he rides into the woodland, the more he understands why the woman had escaped it - a cloud of dense smoke limits his vision as he continues on. The forest air becomes foggy and stiff. Hard to breathe. When he feels Nacht-Crawler cough below him, he pulls on the reins to allow him to stop, and Kurt removes himself from the saddle to allow the horse to breath easier without his weight. Pulling out a cloth from his pocket, he covers his own mouth.

The air only grows thicker with ash when he tries to move on. Then black, jagged shapes - burnt stumps of trees - emerge from the grey. Everything is but shades of charcoal.

It almost felt like a trap; he was a jack-rabbit in a den of wolves.

When the ash begins to clear, Kurt is covered head to toe in the dust, as is Nacht-Crawler. Remains of tee-pee frames and tree stumps smolder black with smoke in a distant clearing.

This had been a Native camp, freshly razed to the ground.

Kurt leads his horse through the remains. No bodies. The dead removed. Just another forest clearing.

A distant gunshot startles Kurt and Nacht-Crawler, the animal taking a step back. Kurt stops moving completely.

Another gunshot. Then another.

Kurt slowly walks away from his horse as more shots ring through the air.

Branches snap under foot from yonder; the sound of someone running _towards_ him.

Then a young Native man springs from the brush and skids to a halt when the two boys meet eyes. He’s bare chested. Coated in blood. He stands proud and waiting, as if preparing to die by Kurt’s hand.

Kurt’s ash-grey.

This young man’s blood-red.

For a moment they study each other’s strangeness. And in that beat, Kurt feels the need to cover his face; to cover his markings that surely stand out against the dust.

But another gunshot breaks their illusion, and the Native bolts past Kurt. He barely has time to register what’s happened before there’s more rustling and three men dressed in blue uniforms emerge from the brush: Union soldiers.

Guns are quickly raised in Kurt’s direction. “Arms abroad, boy!”

Kurt raises his limbs without hesitation.

“Red skinned or white?” Asks one soldier, his voice softened. Intended for only his fellow men.

“Can’t tell.” Answers the man besides him; the coat of ash covering Kurt is the source of their confusion. Without the dust, these soldiers would find he was neither.

“Sir. I am British,” The young boy replies. It takes the men no time to see through that lie. His accent is too thick. So he corrects, “...German.”

The officer eyes Kurt with suspicion as he barks orders to his proteges: “Catch the savage.”

And the two soldiers run off into the woods.

Kurt and this officer only stare for a beat until the muffled gunshots ruin their silence, and the officer smiles.

On edge, Kurt speaks first, “I am Kurt Wagner. Son of Lord Az-”

The officer lowers his rifle and walks closer, interrupting, “We’re all Sons of Bitches.”

Seemingly from thin air, a figure appears behind the officer and cocks his gun by the older man’s ear. They all tense. Taking the officer’s gun in one smooth action, this stranger tosses it aside - out of arm’s reach. Kurt watches from his place in the clearing, taking in this new man’s features: he’s older, lean, but fit. He’s dirt ingrained with only his eyes clean. He looks wild, yet his movements are skillful. Economic, fast, his posture confident, and in control to the point of blase.

Brief in words and action.

“A grave play, boy.” The officer warns, watching the new figure from the corner of his eye. There’s another cock of a gun, and both men look to Kurt.

“Sir,” The boy starts, his weapon shaking some in his grasp, “lower your pistol. Please.”

But the stranger only sighs then slowly circles around, continuing to aim his gun to the officer's head, and moves towards Kurt.

“Hey!” The youth shouts out in warning, but the man gets close enough to snatch his gun right out of his hands. Pointing Kurt’s gun at the officer instead, he pulls the trigger.

The gun only clicks. It’s empty.

The officer smiles, but quick as a flash the stranger raises his own gun and shoots the man between the eyes. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

Without taking his gaze off the fallen trooper, the stranger tosses Kurt’s gun back to him. Kurt fumbles to catch it.

“Clean it. Oil it.” The stranger commands, his voice rough. He crouches down by the officer, and pulls out a large knife from the holder at his side. He cuts a pouch from the officer’s belt.

Kurt watches the man warily, shifting on his feet. He’s unsure what to do with himself. So, he questions, “What do you want?”

The stranger doesn't respond, too busy checking the contents of the pouch and stuffing them into his belt. He moves on to the man’s pockets.

“He was an officer.” Kurt continues.

“Wearin’ a dress don’t make her a lady.” Comes the rough reply. Pocketing a tin, he finally rises to his feet and looks back to Kurt. “They ain’t soldiers. Least not anymore.” He nods back towards the woods, where the other two men had disappeared into, “Just Indian slayers.”

He turns focus back to the dead man at his feet, and removes the officer’s boots. He addresses Kurt without looking up, “Keep headin’ west solo and you’ll be dead by dawn. How you made it this far is a miracle.”

“I take care of myself.” Kurt defends.

“Sure kid.” There’s a smile in his tone. “Look, you _need_ chaperonin’, and I’m a chaperone.”

He gets back up, walking towards Kurt. Kurt takes a step back in response, still holding his empty gun close. But the stranger only walks past him and, instead, towards Nacht-Crawler.

“Safer to travel with a killer?” Kurt inquires, his tone disbelieving.

“That’s right.”

The stranger checks out Kurt’s laden horse. Too many bags and cases for a small pony to carry, he determines. Flipping his knife back out, he cuts the bags free. “First, let’s save your pony’s life.”

Kurt’s clutch on his gun tightens, seeing this man hold a weapon so close to his horse. But he only responds with a small, “His name’s _Nacht-Crawler_.” Then, when the man narrows his eyes at the foreign name, Kurt translates, “Nightcrawler. We call him Nightcrawler.”

The man hums, then cuts a case free and steps aside as it drops to the ground. “I counted a dozen of those bastards attack Indians back there. Minus three, that leaves,” He pauses, “too many.”

Kurt turns and looks into the woods. The stranger’s now on his knees, and begins raking through the case that’d been cut to the ground. He tosses out a kettle, throws a useless box over his shoulder, tosses boots and a shirt. He stops for a beat when he comes across a book. Lifting it up, he reads the cover, then holds it out to Kurt.

“‘Ho for the West. A traveler and Emigrant's Handbook _._ ” He reads aloud. The stranger holds his gaze. “To Canada and the North West States of America _._ ” Kurt continues, moving onto the fine print. The stranger’s stare doesn’t fall. “...By Edward Hepple Hall.” Kurt tries. The stranger throws the book over his shoulder then.

“Well, ho for the West.” He mutters, tossing the whole case aside. He gets up. “Dollars. Fifty now, fifty when we split.”

Kurt attempts to hold his gaze, as the man had done only moments prior. But he caves within seconds and turns his back to fumble in his wallet. Turning back around, he hands the man a fifty bill.

“Until we reach a forest called Silverghost.” He agrees.

The stranger snatches the cash and walks off. “Let’s drift.” He calls out.

Kurt runs around and picks up the book this man had thrown aside. Holding it close, he grabs Nacht-Crawler’s reins and follows the outsider.

~~~

Kurt rides behind the stranger through the forest, brushing the remaining ash from his hair and suit. Watching as the man’s horse ahead picks up speed, he kicks Nacht-Crawler into a trot, leveling with his pace.

“I'm Kurt Wagner. What’s your name?” He questions.

“Drop back. Single file.” The man snaps. Kurt falls back after a moment, letting this man lead.

“Why are _you_ heading West?” He calls out, keeping Nacht-Crawler in single file as he’d been instructed. When he gets no response, he tries, “You care not why _I’m_ headed West?” No response. “There was an accident.” Kurt continues regardless, “My boy-” He pauses, and corrects, “My best friend, Scott Summers, and his brother Alex fled from Germany, settled out West. It was all my fault.”

The man is silent for an extended period before lets out an exaggerated sigh, muttering to himself, “Take a hint, kid.”

Kurt takes his apparent ignorance as disregard. So he adds, “I love him.”

The stranger laughs aloud. “ _Sure_ you do, kid. We all love our friends, if we have any.”

Kurt purses his lips together at the term, but stays quiet and lets his mind wander to handle the silence.

* * *

Mood grey skies, a strong wind blowing, a heather landscape, and beyond lied a rough sea.

Scott stood on top of a small rock formation, his arms lifted at his sides. Kurt sat besides him, smiling wide at the sight. Scott matched the grin on the other boy’s lips, before he leapt from the small rock and tumbled down the hill.

Large waves crashed onto the sandy beach below. Kurt now stood at the top of a large dune - only a few paces down from the hill they’d previously spent time on. Scott planted himself at the bottom, and shouted up with soft laughter, “Kurt! There’s a thousand ways to die! Choose one!”

A wide grin returned to Kurt’s face when he heard Scott’s voice, heavy with his accent. He briefly recalled the first time they’d met - they were both no older than fifteen and fourteen, Scott a year behind him. The newly orphaned brothers had come to Germany from America. Four years passing, and the brunet had yet to lose his manner of speaking.

In response to their little game, Kurt lifted a hand to rest under his chin, and mocked a thinking pose. Then replied, “Bow and arrow!”

Scott pulled a pretend arrow from his imaginary quiver, and fired it up in Kurt’s direction. Kurt faked a shot to the heart and fell dramatically. He rolled down the dune to Scott’s feet and lied still; face up, eyes shut.

Scott had moved to jump on top of Kurt and grinned. But when the older boy hadn’t reopen his eyes, Scott placed his hand on the other’s chest and leaned in, his ear to Kurt’s chest to check his breathing as he continued the charade.

Then, slowly, Kurt placed his hands atop of Scott’s. And lifting his head abruptly, Scott stared down at him, eyes wide and lips somewhat parted as if he was preparing to speak. But instead, the brunet had only smiled and pushed Kurt’s head playfully to the side - breaking their moment.

“Silly boy.” He commented, jumping back up to his feet. “Okay, my turn!” He had called out not a moment later, making his way up the dune.

But Kurt’s focus had gone to the dim German sky.

* * *

Low light, long shadows.

The distant echo of a pretty A-Capella song emanates from the trees ahead. Kurt’s head is slumped, but the music stirs him from his daydream. Three men - their skin almost as dark as Kurt’s own - clothed in dusty ragged Union suits, sit in a circle; one in a makeshift wooden wheelchair, one on crutches. All with wounds from the Civil War.

As they sing, the outsider rides past. But Kurt stops Nacht-Crawler to listen. Taking notice, the stranger stops, sighs, and turns. He whistles to get the boy’s attention, to lead him back into line. But Kurt ignores him. The man considers standing by to wait, but ultimately shakes his head and moves to trot off without the young boy, expecting him to catch up.

But Kurt doesn’t mind being left behind. He finds contentment where he is with these strangers, who sing for the pleasure of singing. The song ends, and the man on crutches looks up at Kurt. Then, in French, questions, “ _Did you enjoy our music?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Kurt replies, his words fluent as he continues, “ _I enjoyed the song very much_.”

“ _It’s a song about love_.”

Kurt smiles some at the comment. “ _Love is universal, like death_.”

With a nod to the group, who begin their music again, Kurt rides after the man already paces ahead.

~~~

The sun bakes the land. Kurt and the stranger keep heading West. The pass a dried lake, dead tree, and dying flowers. The stranger pays the nature no mind. But Kurt pauses, looking out at the scene.

He was a wonder. He saw things differently. To him, they were in a land of hope and goodwill.

When the stranger pauses his horse’s pace in order for Kurt to end up besides him, he questions, “You don’t have to keep lookin’ at everything. There’s nothing pretty out here.”

Kurt looks to him with a blank expression. Then, smiling wide, he looks ahead. “I don’t believe that.” He replies, “Nothing God’s created is ugly.” A beat. “Not even myself.”

The stranger’s stoic expression softens. He had noticed the kid’s scars, the designs that littered his face, neck, and perhaps further. But he made no comment; the West always made her mark on a man.

Turning his attention ahead, he picks up his horse’s pace to fall ahead once more. But not before he informs, “My name’s Erik.”

It’s soft. Quick. But Kurt hears it without difficulty. And he smiles.

~~~

A ragtag posse of one man and four women, all on horseback, form a row and watch a distant Kurt and Erik cross a river bed.

The posse are all distinct and characterful.

A white-haired woman, the sides of her head cut down to the scalp, tightens her grip on her horse's reins. She’s young, inexperienced. But ready for a fight nonetheless.

Besides her sits a younger woman - or rather, a girl - her black hair pulled into two tails at either side of her head. She smiles at the pair below, life and energy seeming to just radiate off her.

A redhead, who cannot be older than twenty, sits tall. Her stature commands respect. Like she holds unknown power. She’s no force to be reckoned with.

Another redhead, much older and mature, moves her horse to ride in front of each girl, her gaze dancing between the men below. She has clear history with one. And unknown history with another.

And behind them all, a man watches with added interest and a knowing grin. A makeshift, folded wheelchair is attached to his saddle, and he watches his legs carefully when he moves his body to turn his horse and leads the group down the hill - trailing not far behind the duo.

~~~

Kurt sits on his blanket, putting out the fire from their makeshift camp, as Erik sits up against a tree.

When Kurt lies back, he readjusts himself to see through the clearing easier. Watching the stars, he lets out an easy sigh while Erik fills his bullet shells with fresh gunpowder a few feet away.

“Same stars.” Kurt hums, “Same moon.”

Erik ignores him.

“One day we will be wandering around that moon.”

Erik continues to ignore.

“Put a railroad up and down the ways. A railroad to the moon. And when we get there, first thing you will do is hunt the natives down.”

“No Indians on the moon.” Erik bites, setting his rifle against the tree.

“No.” Kurt agrees, sitting up, “The natives of the moon. The moon people.”

Erik flashes the kid an incredulous look, and Kurt laughs gently as he lies back down. However, his smile falls some when he focuses back on the stars, and he lifts a hand to point as he begins his nightly recital.

“Pegasus, the Great Bear, the Drago-”

A crackle of sticks under foot in the darkness halt his words. Erik’s on his feet immediately, rifle loaded and back in his hands. Soldier-like, he cocks the gun, and moves off into the woods. Kurt sits up, ready to follow. But Erik points his way and scolds, “Sit down!”

Kurt obeys. As he watches Erik disappear into the darkness, he feels more alone than he did when he _had been_ alone.

Kurt brings his gun out and stays still for a beat, listening carefully to the world around him. The flutter of feathers - an owl. The soft crunch of leaves - too soft for a person, most likely a squirrel. The air feels thin, and it feels harder to breathe the longer Erik is gone.

But Kurt lets out a relieved sigh when the older man comes back from the woodland, his foot knocking against a bowl left over from their meal that night. Kicking it back in Kurt’s direction, he reprimands, “That’s the last time I’m gonna clean up your shit.”

Kurt picks up the bowl with an apologetic nod and gingerly sets it down with his bag, his eyes on Erik as he sits back up against the tree, places his rifle on his lap, and covers himself with a blanket.

It’s Erik’s way of saying goodnight, Kurt figures. He lies back on his blanket, shifting uncomfortably as he stares back up at the moon. And slowly, quietly, he un-cocks his gun.

~~~

The midday sun seems to be hotter than usual as the duo lead their horses up through a rocky canyon. The canyon narrows, forming a pass a couple yards wide. The skeleton of a buffalo who’d been trapped in the small gap, it’s bones picked clean of meat, blocks the route west.

“Must have been winter when Scott passed through here.” Kurt determines, leaving Nacht-Crawler to rest besides Erik’s horse.

They both begin to pull the heavy bones from between the rock - Kurt drops the skull when it falls from the body.

“What’s he like? Summers.” Erik questions, disregarding the kid’s discomfort as he kicks the bone aside. But Kurt perks up.

“He’s a _Schönheit_.” He starts. When Erik raises a brow in confusion, Kurt translates “Beauty. He’s a beauty. And...he does not waste words. They tumble out, wit following wisdom. He’s a natural leader. Never seen anything like it. It’s almost like he was born to guide an army.”

Erik watches the boy with some suspicion, picking at the other’s tone. Then, he realizes, “You actually love him.”

Kurt tenses, suddenly avoiding Erik’s gaze. “That’s,” He tries, “I’m...like you said, he’s my best friend, we-”

“Have you bedded him?”

The question is so straightforward, Kurt almost trips over himself when he steps up to try and pull the skeleton out of the way. But without Erik’s help, it’s nearly impossible. And the older man doesn’t appear ready to give aid until Kurt answers him. So, with a soft exhale, Kurt replies, “It’s more _he_ has bedded _me_ , but-”

Erik’s lifting a hand immediately, “That’s enough.” He stops Kurt’s words before they can tumble out. Then, he gestures to the buffalo rib cage. “Grab that end.”

“You are not disgusted?” It’s Kurt’s turn to ask.

“No.” Erik shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, “I can see why you would be the woman.”

Kurt’s expression hardens. “You’re a brute.”

“I’m many things.” Erik shrugs his shoulders. But, when he gestures to the other end of the rib-cage, Kurt moves to help him lift the skeleton with only some hesitation. They dump it clear of the trail, and walk the horses through the pass.

* * *

Kurt and Scott lied side by side against the soft grass of Scott’s home yard. Kurt’s eyebrows had been drawn in and his lips down in a mournful frown, but Scott hadn’t taken any notice. His eyes were on what little stars they could spot through the densely clouded German sky.

“That one’s the Bear,” Scott pointed out, his hand outstretched to trace the image. Any other night, Kurt may join him in their game; he could point out the Dragon to their south, or the Pegasus facing west. But his mind was too heavy with doubt and worry, his chest too tight as he thinks of the words he wants to ask.

His behavior was finally picked up by the younger boy besides him, who propped himself up onto his elbow, eyes narrowed. Kurt felt ashamed he cannot hold his gaze.

Dusk and evenings were one of the few occasions where Kurt has the chance to truly _see_ Scott’s eyes, to see the beautiful hazel colors that are hidden under hats or hands.

 _The light hurts ‘em,_  Kurt recalls Scott’s explanation; Scott had trusted him with the truth on his sixteenth birthday, two months after Kurt’s seventeenth. That had been the night Kurt had explained his scars to Scott, underneath a rare cloudless night.

He’s not sure how many of their secrets were shared under this sky.

Scott, in an effort to cheer Kurt up from his current state, made a gun shape with his hand and pretended to shoot Kurt through his heart. “A thousand ways to die,” He smiled, effortless and easy, “you gonna go down mopin’?”

Kurt made an effort to smile back. But it fell quickly.

“Scott.” He had started, pushing himself up to sit properly. “How…” He trailed off, having difficulty getting his words across, “Do you feel.” Another pause. “About me?”

Scott went tense besides him, fear taking hold of his heart and bones. “We shouldn't talk about this.”

Kurt understood. Speaking about their situation in public was dangerous. But, _not_ speaking about it had been putting a strain on their friendship. Between their connection and his reputation, Kurt would have rather sacrificed the latter.

“We should not,” Kurt had agreed, “but we need to.” Scott stayed silent, attempting to distract himself with the grass beneath them. But when Kurt lied his hand atop of his own, Scott went stiff. “I need to know.” Kurt continued, his tongue felt as if it was made of lead the more his doubts began to consume his thoughts, “I need to know if I’m the only one who feels like this.”

“Kurt,” Scott had begun, trying to stop the conversation. He didn’t want to speak about it, didn’t want to confront it.

“ _I need to know how sick I am_.” He had finally managed out. Stress had the words tumble out in his mother tongue. But Scott understood him clearly. Kurt knew he had. Which made the silence that followed more painful.

Unable to keep his focus on the brunet, Kurt had shut his eyes and prepared himself for the outcome - for the confirmation of his illness. Not for the hand his hair and lips pressed against his own; light and chaste, Kurt would have thought the kiss imaginary if not for Scott’s words:

“If you are sick for wanting this, then I must be sick too.”

Scott had given Kurt his first kiss that spring night, under Orion’s Belt.

* * *

Along the base of a cliff, Erik takes a swig from his water bottle before he turns in his saddle to toss it back to Kurt.

“A trading post is up ahead.” He informs, “We can dine at a table.”

Kurt doesn’t object to the idea.

The trading post is small; a one room wooden shack, with a veranda running along the front. Two horses are tied up out front, and Erik watches the animals carefully as he dismounts his own. When Kurt jumps down from his saddle, Erik turns on his heel and holds the reins out.

“Tie the horses ‘round back.” He commands. Kurt listens without question, leading both horses around the side of the building as Erik reaches the veranda.

Left of the trading post door is a makeshift notice board fixed to the wall. Erik turns to make sure Kurt is out of sight, then checks every notice.

Among a number of wanted posters of grim faced outlaws, a particular poster stands out among the rest: “ _Scott and Alex Summers, Wanted For Murder, Reward $2000, Dead Or Alive"_

Erik rips the poster from the board. Everyone knew about the bounty. Everyone but Kurt, it seemed. He was leading Erik right to them.

The trading post door swings open and a couple exits, Erik taking a small step back in response. A man in a white dog collar and black suit - a priest’s get up - carries a long case at his side. It’s about the length of a large rifle. And most likely contains a large rifle. Everything about this man’s appearance gives off a professional aura. Everything but the man’s face; his features are boyish, young eyes and curling blond hair hidden under his hat. He is not as old as he is trying to appear.

Besides him stands a woman, her expression cold and hostile, her eyes intense; it felt as if she could read one’s mind if she concentrated hard enough. At her side, a sword hangs from the belt of her pants - an unusual clothing choice for a woman, if she was in a different profession. It would be difficult to hang her weapon from a dress.

For the brief moment, the three only stare. There’s a beat of recognition between them. Erik glances down to the boy’s case and he _knows_. A bounty hunter can smell another.

“Warren. Betsy.” He greets, though his tone is cold and far from welcoming. The boy smiles where the woman purses her lips into a thin line, and Warren tips his hat before they walk past the older man, mounting the horses that had been left out front.

There were only a few of them left, men beyond the law. But the most dangerous were the last to fall.

Erik keeps his eyes on the couple’s retreating forms before he walks into the trading post. Inside is dark and dusty, shelves on all sides are filled with necessities. Native blankets, furs, buffalo skins, pots, pans, ammunition, saddle bags, suits, boots, bags of salt and corn, jars of honey, and rolls of string.

A counter runs along the back of the shop; in front and to the left stands two small wooden tables, four chairs. To the right, more shelves piled high, and an entrance to a small changing room covered by a large Native rug.

Behind the counter stands an old man. Erik doesn’t pay him much mind. He steps up to the counter only to strike  a match on the side, lighting a cigar he pulls from his belt.

“May I ask you to place your iron on the counter while you browse?” The store owner suggests, eyeing the pistol attached to Erik’s side.

Erik obliges, setting the gun down against the counter top before he wanders around the room, checking the stock. Kurt enters through the doors, closing the door gently behind him. The store owner eyes the boy with confusion, obviously taking notice of his skin.

But Erik is moving to stand in front of the boy, announcing, “We’ll be dining.”

The old man opens his mouth, but shuts it after a second thought and merely nods. As he moves out from around the counter to prepare a table, Kurt’s eyes are drawn to the clothing along a rail.

“May I try on a suit?” He questions, looking back to the owner.

The man only waves in his direction as he wipes a table off, murmuring, “Be my guest.”

Kurt looks Erik’s way for a moment before he lifts a suit from the rail and crosses the room, entering the small changing room. He pulls closed the native blanket curtain.

Inside the room, a filthy mirror is attached to the wall. Kurt wipes it clean with his sleeve, and looks at his disheveled reflection. He frowns at it, a hand lifting to trace over a mark along his cheek. But he stops the action immediately, raising his hand higher to mess with his hair instead.

Erik sits down at the table in the opposite corner of the room, taking a slow drag from his cigar. The storekeeper picks up a couple of glasses and a bottle before he approaches Erik. “Whisky?” He offers.

“You got meat?” The owner shakes his head.

“I got condemned bacon.” The old man shrugs his shoulders, turning on his heel to head back to the counter, “Traded it for bullets. Both’ll kill you pretty quick.”

Erik puts the cigar back between his lips, shaking his head to disregard both offerings. He eyes the changing room across the floor, before reaching into his pocket to retrieve the wanted poster he’d hidden.

Kurt, meanwhile, sets his pistol on a stool inside the changing room and tries on the suit jacket. He’s straightening out the collar, considering himself, before he notices the hole right above his heart - one obviously made by a bullet. Dried red crusts of the blood of the previous owner trail down the inside of the coat.

Outside the room, the store’s door swings open. A single woman walks in. She’s a traveler, her clothes dusty and torn. She moves nervously, jittery, eyes showing desperation. She doesn’t seem to notice Erik sitting at the table across the room when she wanders to a shelf. Turning hesitantly over her shoulder, she watches the storekeeper - who averts his eyes to the counter top as he begins wiping it down - and she reaches out to swipe some items from the shelf before her.

“Ma’am,” The old man speaks up, keeping his eyes on the counter top, “you have to purchase items before baggin’ ‘em. That’s how we do it here in America.”

Erik straightens in his seat, sensing the tension in the woman’s bones when she freezes. He sees the trouble before it begins.

When she turns around, the items are dropped to the floor. Instead, she pulls a pistol from the top of her dress and takes aim. Kurt hears the situation from inside the changing room, and goes still. The storekeeper drops the rag he’d been using, and raises his hands.

“Sorry,” The woman speaks, her voice shaking with every letter, “Money. Please.”

“Now, listen,” The storekeeper starts, “you realize if I give you money, here’s the only place ‘round where you can spend it.”

The woman cocks the gun. “Money!” She repeats, hesitation gone from her voice. Erik and Kurt both stay frozen in their respective places. When the storekeeper makes no move to give her what she asks for, she raises the butt of the gun and slams it against the temple of his head. Immediately, she reaches for the money hidden under the counter top. But when the owner rises, a shotgun now in hand, she fires her pistol point blank into his chest. He falls down, dead behind the counter.

The woman falls into hysterics, the gun shaking violently in her grasp. Erik shifts where he sits, and the woman stops breathing in shock. She turns suddenly, pointing her gun at him. And Erik, unarmed, only stares.

“Breathe.” He speaks, his tone soft and calm. Kurt pulls the rug back just enough to peek out. The woman’s facing away from him, her back being the only thing he can see. Taking a soft step back, he reaches for the pistol he’d left on the stool.

“Breathe. In. And out.” Erik continues, his eyes on the shaking gun in the panicking woman’s hands.

“Money!” She continues, pleading now.

Kurt listens to Erik’s words, breathing in time with his words. Erik’s been speaking to Kurt, to calm and direct him. And it’s working.

“Money!” The woman practically screams then, growing more desperate by the minute.

“Breathe in.”

Kurt does.

“ _Money!_ ”

“And out.”

Kurt steps out of the changing room, directly behind the woman.

“In.” Erik’s voice drops to a near whisper, eyes flickering to Kurt for a second. “And out.”

Kurt pulls the trigger when he breathes out, shooting the woman in the back. She falls. Kurt’s frozen to the spot, staring down at the dead body. He drops the gun when his hands begin to shake.

Erik breathes a sigh of relief, and gets up fast. “Grab some provisions.” He directs. He moves to a shelf, tugging a blanket down, and he turns to see Kurt still frozen in place, his eyes wide in shock. “Kurt!” He snaps. The boy moves like he’s on autopilot, retrieving the gun from the floor before he follows Erik’s orders.

Erik collects useful items - tins of food, ammo, oil.

Kurt collects useless items - chocolate and honey.

~~~

The young boy exits the trading post first, into the bright daylight. But he stops abruptly.

Two children stand side by side, holding hands, just a few feet from the building’s door. They both appear the same age, though the boy’s hair is a very light blond; almost white. The girl besides him has hers pulled back in a bun, and it’s just as dark as the dead woman inside.

Erik steps out of the door, and pauses when he sees the kids.

“Shit.” The word is breathless.

He shuts the door before the kids can see the fate of their mother. Kurt takes unsure steps forward towards the children as Erik disappears to fetch their horses.

The boy and girl stare up at Kurt with expressionless faces, though their hands tighten around each other. Without a word, Kurt kneels down and lays the items he’d gathered from the shop at their feet.

“De ce esti trist?” The boy questions, though Kurt doesn’t understand their language. Erik’s then at his side, touching his arm to get his attention.

“Dry your eyes, kid.” He mutters, not sparing the two kids a glance, “Let’s drift.”

Kurt begrudgingly turns to Nacht-Crawler, wiping at his right eye as he mounts on his saddle. They ride off, leaving the kids to their fate.

~~~

Kurt and Erik ride in silence, Kurt behind as he’d been instructed so many times before. Erik whistles a tune - Yankee doodle - and Kurt snarls, believing Erik’s happy.

He doesn’t see the older man’s expression: hard and holding back tears. Erik feels his hand shaking aggressively, and releases the reins to clench them into fists.

“We could have taken them in.” He hears Kurt, and Erik nearly growls.

“In where?”

Kurt shuts down at the reply.

That night, Erik falls asleep before Kurt. The young boy can’t will his eyes closed, though they feel heavy. He sees nothing but the deep red of blood when he does. And it’s upsetting; red was always Scott’s favorite color.

* * *

The cottage was a single room building: basic yet homely. Hard packed earth floor, a small kitchen table, fireplace for heat and cooking. Bunk beds down one wall, a tiny window the only light source.

The house never use to be this quiet when Scott and Kurt had the place to themselves. But, only a month after their peaceful night, it felt as if they had to stay silent around even each other to keep their secret safe; that speaking too loud would alert the world outside the four walls.

Instead of prompting laughter with inside jokes or games, they spent the hour in tranquility, exploring - Kurt took the chance to examine Scott’s eyes without guilt or unease settling in his stomach, to notice the flickers of grey against his brown. To count the faint, nearly invisible freckles that paint over his nose. Scott took the opportunity to trace over Kurt’s scars without the need to be subtle; his fingers had danced and outlined the designs carved into his arms, legs, neck. It was only when Scott’s palm had rested against the older boy’s cheek that Kurt broke their peaceful silence.

“We should tell him.” The statement needed no further explanation for Scott, whose gaze had dropped to the floor.

“I’m not ready, yet.”

“He’s your brother. Won’t he understand?”

Kurt couldn’t recall a moment in time when he’d seen Scott’s expression twist as it had that night, filled with fear and uncertainty. “I don’t know.”

The sound of a gate shutting interrupted their moment, and it sprung Scott into nervous action, looking around desperately for a place to hide Kurt; he should not have been there.

The sound of Alex’s voice, followed by more, threw Scott into a panic.

“I should go.” Kurt had spoken the obvious, but Scott had an hand on his chest before Kurt could take a step to the door. He had watched Scott’s focus jump from the door to the window, the wheels in his head turning frantically.

“There’s no time to get you out.” He realized. Then, taking control of the situation, he commanded, “Under the bed!”

Kurt hesitated to follow the instruction, however. It took Scott’s gentle nudges at Kurt’s shoulders and legs to get him to kneel down and crawl under the cot. Kurt turned himself around to be able to look out just as the cottage’s door had swung open.

“Alex.” He heard Scott’s voice. Two pairs of legs joined Scott’s own in front of the bed.

“Scott.” Alex’s voice - deeper and smoother than his younger brothers’.

“Hello, Scott.” Came another voice, one Kurt was unfamiliar with. He huddled closer against himself, comprehending that he was stuck under the bed for the rest of the night.

~~~

More guests had entered the room within the hour, each with connections to Alex. Kurt had only picked up a handful of the visitors’ names: Sean, Angel, and Armando.

He knew Alex had been spending time with Sean and Armando at the dining table across the room, the group laughing as they recollected on a tale Alex had been chatting on about.

Angel had taken up seating on Scott’s bed, Scott choosing a position against the wall where he could keep an eye on Kurt. He had been having a conversation with the older woman, sparing the darker boy a few smiles throughout their talk.

Kurt was well aware that, had he been caught, Alex would’ve welcomed him into the gathering with open arms. But Scott had acted on instinct and fear, and for Kurt to reveal himself would have called for a long explanation. The smartest decision was for Kurt to stay under the bed until the party finished; a plan that, for the time being, had been working.

But, the friendly atmosphere was cut dead when a new stranger entered the home, his presence alone cold and hostile. His entrance wiped the smile from Scott’s lips.

Kurt watched Angel’s legs drop to the floor as she stood, heard Alex’s chair scrape against the floor as he moved back to rise.

“Lord Azazel.” He had greeted the man, his voice monotone, “May I help you?”

Azazel’s voice had Kurt shrinking to the dark back wall, anxiety wrapping its fingers around his throat: “I’ve come for my son.”

It was Scott’s immediate step towards the cot that gave Kurt away.

~~~

“You should not be in here.” Azazel had dragged Kurt by the scruff of his neck out the door of the Summers’ cottage; Alex, Scott, and Armando followed close behind. When his father released his nape, Kurt had taken several steps away, a deep scowl set against his lips.

“ _You have no right to drag me away_.” He spouted, his words bitter in his language.

“ _I have every right! T_ _hese people are peasants_.” Azazel’s remarks never held any sense of compassion. Kurt had grown use to his father’s harsh tongue after withstanding nineteen years of insults thrown both his and Scott’s way. However, everyone has their breaking point. Kurt’s came that night.

Flinching away from his father’s reach, Kurt had moved to take a place besides Scott, holding Azazel’s frigid gaze. “I’m with him, now.” The statement came as a surprise to Alex, who had turned to his brother for explanation. Scott could only keep focus on the ground, unable to look anyone in the eye.

A grim frown had set itself against Azazel’s lips, and he took a threatening step forward, “You will abandon your home just as your mother had?” The words were meant to sting.

But they had only fueled Kurt’s defiance, “I can see why she left.”

Azazel’s eyes had flashed with anger, and he raised an opened palm in his son’s direction. Kurt’s rebellion had fallen apart at the motion, fear settled in his chest. He didn’t realize he’d been hit until he felt the strike’s sting against a scarred cheek _after_ it had happened. He didn’t realize he’d fallen until Scott was besides him, shock and anger mixing in his expression.

Azazel stood before them, a satisfied grin twisting onto his lips. And then Alex had moved, blinded by rage. Armando had extended an arm in warning, but Alex already had Azazel in his grasp. Kurt had only watched when Alex forcefully shoved the Lord away. He hadn’t expected his father to trip against the cobblestones. To see him fall. To hear the thud of Azazel’s head as it smacked against a rock. To witness his father’s death.

Time had stopped for that short moment.

Scott set it back into motion with his panicked, quiet ramblings: “He’s not dead. Alex, he’s not dead, right?”

The older boy couldn’t bring himself to answer. Turning back to Armando, he rested a hand along his friend’s arm and muttered, “Go back inside, get everyone out. Don’t let them see.”

Armando had only hesitated for a breath before he was following the orders. Alex’s calm composer was gone the moment he left. “Kurt,” His voice was now shaking when he spoke. He watched Scott help the darker boy to his feet, terror and regret clear in his eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

Seeing his brother’s control had slipped, Scott had taken authority, turning Kurt’s attention to himself. “You need to go.” The command was simple. But Kurt had difficulty understanding.

He had opened his mouth to question, or disagree, but Scott was already leading him away from the house, putting his legs into motion. “You can’t be caught here.” _Here_ hadn’t meant with him. _Here_ hadn’t meant their home. _H_ _ _ere_  _meant a murder scene. “Come back in two days, when things have settled down.”

Kurt had stumbled to an empty home in the dark, his heart pounding in his ears, shock preventing him from fully processing the events he had observed. He understood Scott had pushed him away, though.

It was for his protection. They both just wanted to protect him.

* * *

Kurt woke with a start, his breathing heavy.

Forcing himself to calm, he turns to Erik. His nightmare hadn’t woken the older man from his slumber. Watching Erik carefully, dread begins to get a grip on his heart. The memory had resurfaced because of him - because Erik had him witness another death. Kurt refused to allow more death to occur due to his actions.

Rising quietly, he rolls his blanket up and packs his bag. Attaching his supplies to Nacht-Crawler, he reassures that he’s not left anything, and climbs onto the saddle.

Erik watches through slit eyes as Kurt creeps out of camp.

~~~

Morning breaks as Kurt rides onto the vast flat plains of Southern Colorado.

With the noon sun, he sleeps as he rides west.

When the sun’s low and shadows grow long, he stops. In the distance lies a horse, wagon, fire, and one man. He decides to approach the camp slowly. The man takes notice, and rises with a rifle in hand. Kurt stops once he’s within earshot, and lifts his arms up to show himself empty-handed. There’s a beat where they watch each other. Examining. Considering.

Kurt lets out an easy breath when the man lowers his gun and waves. “Good evening!” He calls, his American accent so similar to what Scott’s had been.

“I come in peace.” He replies, offering the man a smile. Kurt pulls his horse to a full halt just before the man’s own, and slides off Nacht-Crawler’s back.

The man beckons Kurt to join him, his friendly serenity not faltering. He’s giddy and offers Kurt his chair when the boy is close enough, running to the back of his wagon to retrieve a second chair for himself, and places it next to his little fire.

“I have coffee.” He offers once Kurt’s got himself settled, and allows himself to sit when Kurt shakes his head in reply.

He notes the journal besides the man, who seems all too happy to have company, he comments, “You are a writer?”

“Perhaps.”

The stranger reaches down, holding up his journal. His fingers trace over the words on the front of the book, before he reads aloud, “I am ‘ _Recording the decline of aboriginal tribes - their customs, culture, and habits - in the hope of preventing their extinction or conversion to Christianity_.’ The title of my account.” He pauses, “Too long?”

“Perhaps.” Kurt smiles. The man matches his grin, and sets his book down in his lap.

“So,” He starts, turning his attention to the direction Kurt had come from, “what’s the news from the East?”

Kurt follows his gaze. “Violence and suffering.” He answers, frowning some, “I passed through burnt remains of an Indian camp.”

The stranger’s shoulders slouch, “That’s awful news.” He shakes his head, opening his journal, “A race is going extinct, their culture is banished, their places re-named. They’ll be viewed with selective nostalgia. Gonna be mythologized and romanticized in the safe guise of art,” He lifts his writings, “and literature. This is a new world for us. And for them.”

Kurt’s eyes has fallen to the flames of the fire before him, worrying creased against his brow. Shifting in his seat, he optimistically questions, “I hope news of the West is happier?”

The man watches the boy, examining him again. Then, leaning back against his chair, he looks out to the dying sun’s light, “Just dreams and hope out there.”

Kurt figures that’s all he needs to keep going. The man drops his journal to the side of the chair, rising to his feet with a new offer: “Are you hungry?”

Kurt watches the older man root around the back of his wagon - he has all sorts of items, about four saddles, many bags, a lot of junk. But he finds some bread, and brings it back to Kurt.

He takes it without a second thought, allowing himself to relax. “Until now, my sole company has been a brute.”

“Sorry to hear that.” The stranger consoles.

Kurt only smiles; it’s nice to be around someone who cares. America seems void of those individuals. “I escaped.”

~~~

Kurt doesn’t leave the camp when the sun has set, and the stranger doesn’t ask for him to go.

Kurt has kept his eyes on the fire before him, watching as it slowly dies through the hours. He surprises himself when he admits, “I killed a woman yesterday.”

Such a confession is not what one would tell to a man they hardly know - but Kurt feels as if a boulder has been removed from his shoulders, admitting one of his sins.

The man shows little surprise at the declaration, however. He only shrugs his shoulders and attempts to warm his hands by the flames. “Part and parcel.” He claims.

“You care not to share your company with a murderer?” Kurt questions, hugging his arms.

“I’d be a lonely man if I did.” He shakes his head, “I am no Judge or Father.” When the man suddenly rises from his chair and stomps the rest of the flames out, Kurt only flinches for a second. “You can camp here.” He continues, already moving to his wagon before he’s adding, “Blanket?”

Though he doesn’t hear Kurt’s soft, “Thank you,” as he goes, he still returns with the covering. “What’s your name?” Kurt questions as he takes the blanket from the stranger’s hands.

There’s hesitation in the man’s reaction - he visibly tenses, gaze moving away from Kurt. But, he does respond, “McCoy.”

“I’m Kurt. Thank you, McCoy.”

McCoy only nods, turns, and climbs into the back of his wagon. He shuts the doors, leaving Kurt alone under the vast, starry sky.

~~~

When Kurt wakes in the morning, he is more than alone again. McCoy is gone, as is Nacht-Crawler and all of Kurt’s possessions.

Kurt stumbles up to his feet, spinning on his heel. But McCoy is far gone, now. The boy lets out a panicked breath, taking two steps back. When he hears a crinkle under his step, he turns to find a note at his feet. However, when he picks it up, all it reads is “West” followed by an arrow. He looks at the arrow, and turns around with the paper in hand before realizing the joke of having an arrow west drawn. Every direction could be West.

He throws the note to the wind, angry and amused in equal measure. Draping the blanket over his shoulder, Kurt picks a direction and begins walking. He’ll get nowhere standing in one place.

~~~

Kurt regrets his decision when the noon sun begins rising. He staggers over his steps, hungry and tired. But the boy doesn’t stop moving until he’s spotted a handful of mushrooms sprouting from the dust.

Curiously, he kneels down before them, plucking one from the ground. The wind prevents Kurt from hearing a horse approach from behind - it’s the shadow of the man atop the animal that has Kurt turning around.

“You can eat those.” Erik nods to the mushroom in Kurt’s hands. Then, with a slight smirk, he adds, “Eat enough of them an’ you can fly to Scott.”

Clenching his jaw, Kurt drops the fungi and rises to his feet. His eyes jump from Erik to the horse attached to Erik’s saddle, shock and relief filling his chest when he sees Nacht-Crawler. He takes two steps forward, but pauses, and looks back to Erik. “Did you kill McCoy?”

Erik takes time to shape his answer: “No. No reason.”

Kurt, though satisfied at the reply, doesn’t give Erik any sign of his contentment. Instead, he goes to Nacht-Crawler, speaking to his animal softly. As Erik unties Nacht-Crawler’s reins from his saddle, Kurt pulls out his wallet, pulls out the rest of his money, and holds it out to the older man.

“This is all I have left.” He informs, “Get me there in one piece.”

Erik’s eyes are on Kurt when he takes the cash, murmuring, “Sure, kid,” as he reaches into a side pocket on his saddle. Pulling out a biscuit, he holds it out to the boy, who snatches it fast.

~~~

Erik and Kurt ride across the plain towards a forest, but not even an hour later they’ve stopped, coming across a scene in the woods.

“That’s a shame.” Kurt comments, crossing his chest.

“Is it?” Erik retorts, the both of them looking down at a tree that had been chopped down and fallen atop of the logger, completely squashing him. When both men looking back to each other, they smile.

“No it’s not.” Kurt agrees, gently kicking Nacht-Crawler when Erik begins moving ahead. Nothing like someone else’s misfortune to bond a friendship. “Charles Darwin talks of ‘evolution by natural selection.’”

“For our sake,” Erik calls back, “let’s hope he’s wrong.”

~~~

As the men ride on, Erik rides a bit further in front of Kurt as the young boy quietly hums behind him, trying not to eavesdrop on the other’s personal song:

“ _My lord is hunting, he has gone_ ,”

Erik glances over his shoulder at Kurt, reassuring that he isn’t paying Erik any mind,

“ _Hounds and hawks with him are none_ ,”

He turns back around, pulling the Wanted poster from his pocket,

“ _Beyond Silverghost lies his game_ ,”

Erik looks at the drawing of Scott, flips it over to the reward price, then flips back to the sketch before he pockets it,

“ _Scott Summers is his name._ ”

Suddenly, two thousand dollars is less intriguing than it had been days ago.

~~~

They find pretty clearing in the forest. Light dappled down through trees. A gentle trickling stream and campfire crackling is all the noise they hear. Logs are laid out for sitting. A kettle is boiling.

It’s a peaceful, dreamlike place in a violent world.

Kurt’s taken a seat on one of the logs, watching Erik approach with a large hunting knife. Sharpening it, he walks behind the boy, and holds it out within Kurt’s line of sight. “The knife’s gotta be as sharp as a razor.” He informs. Kurt’s face has been lathered up with soap - the situation is ironic. Kurt doesn’t have even the hint of a stubble, but Erik felt it necessary to teach him this.

Tilting the blade to press against the skin of Kurt’s throat, he continues, “You hold the knife flush against the skin. And it’s a scraping motion against the grain, not a slicing motion.” He scrapes the knife up the side of Kurt’s face, and wipes the soap on a cloth over his shoulder, “Like so.”

Kurt leans back enough for Erik to see his baffled expression, ready to voice his confusion. Erik answers before he gets a word out, “Gotta make you presentable for ‘im.”

Kurt smiles wide at that, letting Erik re-position his head before the blade is brought back to his throat. They share a few beats of silence - Erik scraping soap off Kurt’s face, and Kurt letting his mind wander once more. Erik’s glad he’s wiping the knife off when Kurt speaks up - if he’d jumped with the knife closer to the kid’s throat, it would have been a horrible situation.

“You came and found me.” Now it’s Erik’s turn to wear a bewildered expression, “You had your money. You could have left me behind. But you came and found me.”

Clenching his jaw, Erik brings the knife back to Kurt’s face, “I wasn’t gonna let you die in the desert, kid.”

Kurt stays silent, taking in the older man’s words. Erik can hear the smile against Kurt’s lips when he replies, “I know why you need me.”

Erik pauses, the thought a bit amusing - him needing help. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re lonely. You’re a lonely man.”

The truth throws Erik for a beat, “Sure, kid.”

“Sure kid.” Kurt repeats, voice lowered some to mock Erik’s tone, “Let’s drift. The silent, lonely drifter.” Erik tightens his grip on the knife before he brings it over to the other side of Kurt’s face. But Kurt doesn’t let up, “You’re a lonely, lonely man, Erik.”

Erik places the blade on Kurt, the sharpened end facing the base of his throat, “No need to concern over me. Now hold still.”

Kurt tenses a bit when the knife is brought back to his skin, the slicing motion feeling less friendly the more their conversation continues. “All I am saying,” He starts again, wincing when Erik quickly pulls the blade away, “is that there is more to life than just surviving.”

“Yeah,” Erik agrees, wiping the blade clean, “there’s dyin’. Survival ain’t jus’ how to skin a jack-rabbit, Kurt. It’s knowing when to bluster and when to hush. When to take a beatin’ and when to strike.”

 _When to be defiant and when to stand down_. Kurt feels the corners of his lips tug downwards, and purses his lips together to keep the frown from forming. His mind wanders back to his father, to Scott, to that night.

“Where is your family?” Kurt find himself asking aloud, needing a form of distraction.

“Father and Mother’s in the ground in Poland.” Erik’s quick to answer, unbothered by the memory.

“And what keeps you from joining them?”

Everyone has a breaking point. Erik was starting to reach his. “I dunno, kid.” He snaps, “quit askin’ me shit.” Stabbing the knife into the side of the log, he steps away from Kurt, leaving half his face still covered in soap. “I was fine ‘til you showed up, y’know.” He murmurs, and Kurt’s brows pinched together in offense.

“I showed up? _You_ showed up-” He defends, but his words stop short at the sound of leaves crunching beneath a horse’s hooves. Falling silent, Erik brings his gun out from it’s holder and cocks it, taking quiet steps back towards Kurt.

The boy is following his lead, reaching for his suit’s jacket to remove his pistol when Erik aims his own at their intruder.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Erik?”

Kurt’s on his feet at the newcomer’s voice - thick with an English accent. The man’s appearance is unlike anyone they had come across; neat, slicked back hair. Clean. A smile which held no distrust or hostility. The saddle strapped to his horse was an interesting design, seemingly handmade, with a back-piece. He sat awkwardly in it, however, with his feet not in the saddle’s stirrups and instead lying against the animal’s sides. If not for his saddle, it seemed as though the man would fall right off his horse.

The three men hold each other’s gazes - Erik’s hard and cold, Kurt’s wary, and the Englishman’s bright and welcoming, unconcerned with the gun Erik still holds on his figure.

Slowly, the Englishman removes his hands from his horse’s reins, instead moving to push his coat back, letting the two see his empty gun holsters. When Erik lowers his pistol, Kurt follows.

“What do you want, Charles?” Erik inquires, though his tone makes the question sound more like a demand.

Charles’ eyes dance between the man and boy, offering Kurt a smile when their stare connects, before replying, “Some help getting down.”

Kurt takes a small step forward, looking Erik’s way as if to ask permission. When the older man doesn’t disapprove of his action, he crosses the camp to get to Charles’ saddle, reaching for his arm. It’s only when the Englishman shakes his head that Kurt freezes.

“You need to unfold my chair, first.” He informs, gesturing to the makeshift seat attached to the back of his saddle. Cautiously, Kurt unlatches the chair and opens it up, surprised at the wheels along it’s sides.

“What is this?” He asks, rolling the chair forwards and then back towards himself.

“Mine.” Is all Charles replies with, turning his attention to Erik, who still stands at the opposite side of the camp. “I don’t think your friend could easily pick me up.” He comments, his smile less warming than the one he had given Kurt. But the statement is enough to convince Erik to help, resentfully making his way to Charles’ side to help him out of the saddle and into the wheelchair. He readjusts himself, but once content he reaches into a pouch latched onto his saddle. When he pulls out a liquor bottle and offers it to Erik, his explanation is, “A peace offering.”

Kurt waits until Charles lets himself into the camp to confront Erik, his voice lowered to a whisper when he guesses, “You know him?”

Erik glances down to the bottle now in his hand. He corrects, “I knew him.”

~~~

Erik had moved the logs near their campfire to accommodate where Charles had parked his chair, placing the three of them in a triangle - Charles across from Erik, and Kurt between them both.

The silence that had followed was less than comfortable. Minutes of it pass with Erik’s focus on the bottle of alcohol he had yet to let go of, Charles’ focus on him, and Kurt’s focus on the remaining flickers of sunlight through the trees.

When Charles attempts to start a conversation, the topic he picks only furthers the hostility in Erik, “Ten years, and there’s not a new scratch on you.”

Without missing a beat, Erik retorts, “Fuck you, Charles.”

There’s laughter in Charles’ words, “I’m sure you’d love to.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in for Kurt, for them to click. Then he’s whipping his head around to Erik, his eyes wide. But the older man’s kept his own on the bottle.

Charles smiles at the boy’s response, shifting in his chair as he turns attention to Kurt.

“Erik hasn’t spoke of me, has he?” Charles questions. Kurt shakes his head, despite the warning look Erik shoots his way. “Not surprising.” The Englishman admits, outstretching a hand Kurt’s way. The boy is hesitant to take it. “I’m Charles Xavier. What’s your name?”

“Don’t answer.” Erik interrupts Kurt’s answer before the words leave his lips. Eyes darting back to Erik, Charles’ friendly demeanor falters some.

“Now Erik, your boy is old enough to speak for himself, isn’t he?”

“He isn’t grown.” Erik immediately defends. But Kurt doesn’t take his words kindly, his brows pinching together in annoyance.

“I am old enough to care for myself.” He argues.

“Are you?” Erik questions, popping the cork off the bottle, and holding it out to the boy.

“Erik,” Charles’ voice is filled with concern, “I don’t think someone so young should-”

“You just called him old enough, didn’t you?” Erik counters, “If he wants to have a drink, he has the right to.” He looks back to Kurt, his expression softening some. “Go on,” He encourages, insisting the bottle into the boy’s hands, “I’m right here.”

Taking the bottle, Kurt swirls the content inside as he stalls the action of bringing it to his lips. However, the pressure of two pairs of eyes boring into him is all that’s needed for him to pour the liquid into his mouth. He coughs it back up immediately.

Erik doesn’t hide his smile as he pats Kurt on the shoulder, removing the alcohol from his hands. “You’re a man, now.” He teases, his smile only widening at the glare Kurt shoots his way.

“It burns.” He comments, rubbing his throat as Erik takes a swing from the bottle.

Charles watches the man across from him, outstretching his hand in a silent ask for the drink, “It gets easier to handle.”

Erik waits a beat to lean over and give Charles the liquor. He rolls the bottle in his hand, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth. He then lifts it in a mocking toast. “To friends,” He nods at the two men before him, “both old and new.”

~~~

An empty bottle lies on its side where Kurt once sat, lit by the moon.

Charles watches Kurt and Erik a few feet away from their log setup, hiding a grin behind his hand. He’s not as drunk as the other two men are - Kurt far more gone than Erik. Erik may remember this night in the morning, however. Which is a shame for Kurt’s sake; Erik has laughed and smiled more tonight than he had since their meeting.

Charles is still well aware of his behavior, having only taken small sips from their liquor. He finds it easier to stay relaxed as the pair draw their guns, though.

“Spin it.” Erik speaks to the darker man, the command his only instruction as he demonstrates the act with his pistol. And Kurt, after staring at his weapon for a passing beat, attempts to copy.

His reflexes are too slow to catch and stop the gun from sticking into the dirt at his feet, nozzle first. Swaying as he leans down to pick it up, Kurt wipes his sleeve against the side, attempting to wipe the mud off.

“That was pretty good.” Erik compliments, sarcasm and laughter dripping off his tone. Stowing his pistol back into its holster, Erik takes the gun away from Kurt as he begins to turn the weapon in his hand and look down the barrel.

“Perhaps he should lie down.” Charles suggests, finding amusement in the situation.

“ _I’m fine_.” Kurt mumbles out, his words slurred and even harder to understand in his language. He takes a few staggering steps towards the fire, his brows pinching when he feels his stomach lurch at the movement. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Don’t do it here.” Erik interrupts, his hands resting on Kurt’s shoulders to turn the boy in the direction of the path Charles had taken. “Go down there, and come right back.” He instructs, keeping his eyes on Kurt’s back as he wanders down into the woods.

“You won’t go with him?” Charles questions, noting how Erik shifts from one foot to another as he waits for the boy to return. He’s nervous. It’s an odd condition to see from him.

“I’m givin’ him privacy.” Erik argues.

“Him? Or us?” Charles challenges. When the older man whips his head around at the question, Charles just smiles; coy, yet calm. “It’s interesting how you two crossed paths.” He changes the subject, turning around in his chair to face the fire again, “One’s a fallen angel, the other’s a rising devil.”

“He’s not a devil.” Erik shakes his head in disagreement, walking to stand besides Charles, “He’s more holy than either of us.”

“I’m sure God spoke of Lucifer the same way before casting him out.” Charles replies, though their conversation dies when Erik’s focus seems to wander.

“I should go after him. It’s been too long.” He mumbles, taking a few steps towards the path.

“He’ll be fine, you said so.” Charles stops him, lightly grasping Eriks’ hand, “Besides, my group is down that way. They won’t let him disappear. How far can a drunk man wander?”

Erik hesitates, watching the darkened woods uneasily, but he stumbles back to sit down along a log.

The silence that follows lasts for some time, the two men watching the dying flames. However, it feels natural; as if they’ve been in this situation a thousand times over - having nothing but each other’s company, feeling no need to ruin their moment.

“I’ve missed you.” He hums, his voice gentle. And when Erik looks Charles’ way, his expression softens. Yet it lasts for only a moment before he’s turning away.

“Is that why you’re following us?” He questions, “Trying to talk me into coming back?”

“No, it’s not.” Charles states, his next words chosen carefully, “But..it worked for Raven. I don’t know what else I must do to convince you-”

“Because there is nothing you can do!” Erik cuts him off, “I won’t join your pack of criminals.”

Charles’ aura turns cold at the insult, and he defends, “My girls are not criminals. I’m protecting them from unfair laws. I would think you could understand that now, considering you’re chaperoning one outlaw to find another.”

“Kurt isn’t a criminal.”

“He was at least a witness to the murder of that woman in the trading post.” Erik tenses at the memory. “We saw what you did. We saw the children she left behind. That boy is an outlaw, just as you and I.” Charles pauses, his hands gripping the wheels of his chair, “And you’re using him to find the Summers boys.”

Now angry, Erik rises to his feet as he spits out, “And you wouldn’t do the same?”

“I would!” Charles snaps back, “But I would offer the boys shelter when we found them! I’d offer them protection!”

“You collect people like us as if it’s all a game!” He accuses the Englishman, “You don’t understand how dangerous traveling in a group is! If one gets caught, you all get caught!”

Clenching his jaw tight, Charles holds Erik’s stare. “Explain to me,” He continues, “how protecting our people is worse than turning them in to the law?”

Erik’s irritated demeanor falters at the claim, now acutely aware of the wanted poster burning its presence into his pocket. “I’m not,” He attempts to argue, the words having difficulty finding their way to his lips. “I’m not going to turn them in.”

Charles laughs, bitter and unbelieving, “ _You_ would pass up the two thousand dollars on their heads?”

“I’m not trying to find them for me. Not anymore.” He asserts, lifting a hand to gesture down the path Kurt had taken, “That boy needs me. He asked me to get him there safely.” Erik goes quiet then, eyes stuck on the night-lit trail. “And I’m going to protect him if it’s the last thing I do.”

~~~

Kurt pauses at the end of the hill, leaning against one of the story-tall trees until the world stops spinning.

He hunches over, hands on his knees as he waits for is stomach to settle. But as he straightens himself up, he feels the hair on his neck stand. When he looks into the dark, he understands why; two pairs of eyes peek out from the trees, before quickly disappearing when they have realized they’d been spotted.

But Kurt only continues to stare at the dark. He’s almost convinced his own eyes had tricked him until the couple peer out again, one of them - a girl, it sounds like - laughs at Kurt’s confused expression. Pushing away from the tree, he takes two steps forwards, towards the strangers. When the pair dart from one tree to another, he follows them. And does so again, playing their game as they wander deeper into the forest.

But not into the dark; in the distance, he can see a dim light, which slowly grows brighter the closer they get. He only stops following the strangers when he hears more voices, sharing secrets in hushed voices. He follows their noise, which only draws him closer to the light. A fire. A campfire.

“Erik?” He calls out, unsure if the camp was closer than he’d thought. When he teeters into the campground, he sees how incorrect he was.

~~~

“We can help you.” Charles presses, locking his chair into place besides Erik. He reaches for the other man’s hand, and Erik first flinches away. So Charles settles for his shoulder, instead. “We’re looking for the same people, and Kurt knows the way. We can help each other-”

“That boy is looking for Scott because he wants to /be/ with him, Charles.” Erik slurs out, lifting a hand to sooth his temple. “This isn’t a Find-and-Rescue mission. It’s just...helping a kid get home.”

Charles gently squeezes Erik’s shoulder, frowning. “Erik, I understand where Kurt may be coming from. But, I think it would be best for all of us if we were together.” Erik shakes his head some, conflicted between the choices presented to him. Charles leans back in his chair, briefly glancing back to the woodland. “Jean had told me there are hunters. She thinks someone has been giving information out to those who can pay for it. We must get there before they do. We can handle this.”

“I know that, Charles.” Erik lifts his head, turning to face the Englishman for the first time that night. “I know you believe that keeping Kurt and the Summers close will keep them safe. But bringing them out from wherever they’re hiding and taking them into the West, like you do with your girls? That’s dangerous.”

Charles shifts in his chair, attempting to face Erik better. His hand slips from it’s place on his shoulder, down his arm, then to his hand. Erik doesn’t flinch away this time. “I’m sorry, Charles. We can’t go with you. Please, stop following us.”

~~~

A group of four sit around the fire, and Kurt recognizes none of the girls in his drunken state. A redhead directly across from him reaches for the knife in her boot, but the eldest woman holds out a hand to stop her.

“Calm down, Jean.” She speaks, her voice rough. “We need him alive.”

Kurt seems to forget her comment as soon as he hears it; there’s a more concerning matter on his mind: “What have you done with Erik and Charles?” He spins on his heel, “What have you done with the river?”

A darker teenager chuckles at his clear confusion, leaning over to a younger girl besides her to whisper, “Poor baby’s so drunk he probably doesn't remember his own name.”

Her words don't fall deaf to his ears. “My name’s Kurt Wagner.” He states, holding his head higher, as if he's proud to have proved the stranger wrong. The older woman tilts her head enough for the fire to illuminate the red tint in her slicked hair, and the dark hides her amused smile from the man.

“Why don't you stay a while, Kurt.” She offers. Her tone is gentle, perhaps even motherly. But Kurt knows she's nothing more than a stranger. A strange woman he listens to, taking a seat on her log.

The woman watches him, studies him; she reminds Kurt of McCoy. Her focus is torn from him when two children appear from the treeline - a boy and girl, among the same age. They both keep their eyes on Kurt, only the girl offering a smile, until the woman holds her hands out to them. They run to her.

He only gets a closer glimpse of the little girl before she's ducking behind the older woman, but the boy peeks his head out for a beat longer. Kurt doesn't think he should recognize the children, but something about the bleach blond tuff of hair atop the boy's head leaves a pang of guilt in his chest.

Jean hasn't let up on her fierce glare towards him, her fingers twirling the knife she had picked up. It's an intimidation tactic. But in his state, Kurt just watches with amazement.

“How do you do that?”

The woman halts the action at his question to reply, “When you're on the run, you need to learn how to use weapons.”

Her words don't quite click with him, the threatening tone behind the words remains empty. “Why not just use a gun?”

“Too loud.” The darker woman now across from him replies. “If you need to end someone's life quietly, you can't do so with a gunshot.”

“Ororo.” The girl besides her scolds, “You could have put that more delicately.”

“There's no way to speak of death in a light manor, Jubilee.” The eldest woman replies, reaching behind her to hold the hands of the concealed twins. “Death is painful. Unkind. Strikes when she wants and answers to no man.”

“Everyone in this circle has met her.” Jean draws attention to herself. The woman nods at her statement.

“Death has taken from us and we have given to her.” She turns to Kurt, her eyes dark despite the flames, “You may meet her again, shake her hand, grow to not fear her. But do not ever believe you can speak of her like a friend.”

“Death is dangerous.” Ororo speaks up, “She's the wind, the water, the earth.”

“She’s the West.” Jean adds.

“And she deserves nothing less than respect.” The woman concludes.

Kurt can barely follow their back-and-forth conversation, but their tones leave him on edge. He feels like he’s among wolves; nervous that one movement too quick will have them strike. The woman stay silent, all eyes on him.

He thinks they are waiting for a response, for him to speak. So he attempts, “I,” But he cuts himself off as he stumbles up to his feet, “I am at the wrong camp.”

He only spares the two children one last glance before he turns on his heel, away from the stranger’s light and into the familiar dark.

“Good night!” The youngest girl, Jubilee, calls out to the departing boy.

“Good riddance.” Jean adds, flipping her blade back into her boot.

~~~

By the time Kurt’s returned to the correct camp, Charles is long gone. Erik is swaying by their dying fire, tipsy yet deep in thought.

“Erik!” He calls out, tripping over his feet as he makes his way into the heart of their camp, “There’s people in the woods.”

Erik doesn’t react to Kurt’s discovery, a deep frown imprinted onto his lips. “You love him?” Is his only response. And it stumps Kurt for a passing minute.

“Who?”

“Scott.”

Kurt eyes the older man, trying to follow where his conversation may lead as he nods. “I do.”

Erik’s jaw clenches, disappointment and guilt rising in his chest. “Then go home, kid.”

To Kurt, his words sting, almost as hard as his Father’s hand. “But…” He starts, though trails off, his mind repeating Erik’s words. His confusion quickly boils to anger. “He’s mine!” He declares, voice bouncing off the trees in an echo.

“He’s nobody’s.” Erik argues, “And trust me, Kurt. He’s better off being left alone.”

Perhaps a second passes. Or a minute. But in the time it takes for silence to settle between them, Kurt’s expressions flicker through moments of disbelief, of anger, of sorrow, before settling to rage.

“ _Nien_.” He bites, his tone alarmingly similar to Erik’s own, “I did not come all this way just to be turned back!”

The boy lunges for Erik then, but it’d be easy to stop Kurt if he were sober - his drunken state only adds injury to his attacks. However, instead of pushing him away or putting up any fight, Erik only holds Kurt’s arms tight to his sides, smothering his actions as he tries to calm him; it’s unusual behavior. And yet, it works.

Kurt eventually weakens in Erik’s hold, his fury dissolving into tears. Erik stumbles away when Kurt leans into him, the boys’ legs going out from under. But Erik doesn’t let go; he, instead, gently lowers them both to the ground, holding the boy as if he were still a child.

“I’m sorry.” Erik murmurs, and Kurt only sobs openly as his fingers grip the fabric of the older man’s shirt.

It’s unknown to the either them how long they sit on the dirt ground, how long it takes for Kurt’s eyes to run dry, and for exhaustion to take them. It doesn’t matter. They won’t remember it in the morning.

* * *

Like nearly every night before, Kurt’s dreams take him from the reality of America. Away from Erik. From the resurfaced memory of his father. From the fact that Scott is gone, somewhere in the West beyond a forest called Silverghost.

In his thoughts, Scott is there. Even if the memory occurs just days before the boy had disappeared from his life.

Those two days after his father’s death felt like decades; he didn’t yet know the wait of three months would feel like centuries.

The last night they shared was unusually warm for a German evening; Scott claimed that it meant a storm was brewing in the Heavens. But the first drop of water to fall that night came not from the sky, but from Kurt’s eyes. Scott wiped away Kurt’s tears with his thumb, gentle, like Kurt was something precious. “I’m right here,” He reassured.

“You will not be here tomorrow,” Kurt pointed out, eyes filling again. “After tomorrow, Scott, I might never see you again - ” Kurt’s voice broke on a harsh sob. Scott slid an arm around Kurt’s waist, pulling Kurt so he could hide his face in Scott’s neck; Kurt’s body shook with sobs, and he wrapped his arms around Scott as though he might disappear at any minute.

“We’ll find each other,” Scott murmured soothingly into Kurt’s hair, thumb rubbing small circles on Kurt’s hand. “I won’t lose you, I can’t.”

They breathed in tandem for a short time, and Kurt felt his heartbeat slowing from its frantic pace. He could feel Scott’s pulse beating in his neck, and it jumped a little when Kurt brought Scott’s hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I will go wherever you go,” Kurt whispered, pulling back a little so he could meet Scott’s eyes. “I’ll find you.”

The look on Scott’s face was pained and sad and heartbreaking and Kurt couldn’t bear it, so he leaned in and kissed Scott instead, kissed him until they were gasping for breath.

There was a beat where they stared at each other. Kurt reached for Scott’s hands and put them on his waist, biting his lip shyly. They had held each other before, but this seemed different, somehow, as though they were on the verge of something unprecedented.

Another moment, and suddenly Kurt felt himself being moved, lifted by Scott’s strong hands bracketing his waist and pulled onto Scott’s lap. Kurt felt exposed, swaying a little and putting his hands on Scott’s chest for balance. There was something undeniably more intimate about their position, and Kurt flushed pink at the press of Scott’s hips against his, Kurt’s knees spread around Scott’s waist.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be forward - ”

“It’s fine,” Kurt interrupted. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Scott whispered, relieved, and Kurt wasn’t sure who leaned in first but they were kissing again, harder, Scott biting at Kurt’s lips and Kurt’s hands fisting in Scott’s shirt.

Scott thrust up against him and Kurt couldn’t help his shocked moan at the bolt of heat that rushed through him, like nothing he’d ever felt before.

“ _Scott_ \- ”

“God,” Scott said, eyes wide and fearful. “Is it too much?”

Kurt braced a hand on Scott’s shoulder and rolled his hips down where he could feel Scott hard against him. The friction made them both gasp, and Scott looked up to search Kurt’s face, unsure. They’d never gone further than kissing.

“I want to,” Kurt assured, tone hesitant. He wanted this, wanted Scott; but he was painfully aware that the thought should never have crossed his mind.

“Me too,” Scott said cautiously. Time stood still. The tension remained painfully stagnant.

“We’re not sick, are we? For doing this?” Kurt blurted out, looking down and shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to see Scott’s expression.

Scott cleared his throat, and it was loud in the suffocating silence. “Does it matter?” he asked tentatively. Kurt didn’t reply. He took little consolation from _knowing_ it was wrong, because he knew that he would have Scott no matter how great the sin.

“Look at me, Kurt,” Scott said softly, and Kurt obeyed. Scott looked pained. “How can the way we feel be wrong?”

“It is not up to us to decide,” Kurt replied sharply. Scott flinched. Kurt softened his tone. “This,” He said quietly, gesturing between them, “is my greatest sin. I cannot stop myself.”

“Kurt,” Scott said, contemplative, though he didn’t share his thoughts; Kurt’s conviction was obvious. Scott put a shaking hand on Kurt’s cheek, and Kurt tried not to lean into it but he did, eyes closing. He felt trapped in Scott’s orbit, and Kurt knew he’d get burned eventually, flying too close, risking too much, but Kurt leaned in to kiss Scott anyway, knowing Scott would lean in like a magnet.

“One last night,” Kurt mumbled frantically against Scott’s lips. “We are paying the price - we…” He trailed off, unwilling to confront the topic of Scott leaving, and still unsure if he was trying to convince Scott or himself.

He kissed Scott again instead, and he gasped as Kurt ground down against him, fingers tightening deliciously on Kurt’s waist even as he looked at Kurt with concern. “If you don’t want to - ”

“I do,” Kurt whispered, moving his hands to Scott’s shoulders and pulling Scott to him. “Please, Scott, more than anything.” Kurt felt fresh tears burning in his eyes and furiously blinked them away; there would be time for tears later, when they weren’t counting down their last hours together until Scott’s departure. He would serve his penance then, Kurt assured himself.

Scott hadn’t replied, so Kurt rolled his hips harder, pushed with his thighs and ground down, and, _oh_ , he knew the pressure was good for Scott, because there was fire behind Scott’s eyes now and he was gripping Kurt tighter. On Kurt’s next thrust, Scott grabbed at him, pulled Kurt down harder, and they both cried out.

Kurt’s thighs were beginning to ache, but he kept rolling his hips, watching Scott’s face as he moved, feeling the way Scott’s hands tightened on his waist. Then Scott pulled Kurt closer and kissed his neck, and Kurt gasped and threw his head back, feeling Scott grin against him.

“Sensitive?” Scott murmured, and Kurt could only frantically nod and gasp as Scott lavished attention across his neck, certain he’d have marks in the morning and hoping they’d last for days, to have Scott with him as long as possible.

“Someone will see,” Kurt said, panting, gazing at the ceiling open-mouthed as Scott’s lips moved across his throat, bared in submission.

“Tell them it was a girl,” Scott said, and the scrape of his teeth made Kurt shudder. “I need you to know that you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” Kurt whispered, and Scott thrust up in response, mouth falling open. Caught off balance, Kurt leaned heavily on Scott’s shoulders, and Scott let himself fall back onto the bed with Kurt straddling his hips. Kurt looked at Scott’s dark eyes, the hunger in his gaze, feeling a thrill of anticipation when Scott shuddered beneath him and slid his hands under Kurt’s shirt, idly stroking Kurt’s waist.

Kurt shifted down slowly until he was leaning over Scott, arms bracketing his head. He could feel how hard Scott was against him, pressed together from hips to chest, and wondered if it was driving Scott as wild as Kurt. Scott bit and pulled at Kurt’s bottom lip and Kurt let out a low whine.

“Take your shirt off,” Scott said, suddenly and breathlessly, and Kurt stared wide-eyed at him for a moment; Scott’s face was flushed but he bit his lip and stared back, and Kurt realized despite his fear and inexperience he wanted this, wanted Scott.

He straightened into a sitting position, hands free to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers. Impatient or desperate, Scott pushed Kurt’s hands out of the way and roughly unbuttoned it himself, discarding the shirt towards the end of the bed, hands running over all of Kurt he could reach. Kurt whimpered when Scott’s fingers passed over the sensitive scars on his hips, and Scott looked at him with concern.

“I didn’t mean to - do they hurt?” he asked, quickly moving his hands to Kurt’s thighs instead.

“No,” Kurt said, embarrassed. He settled on, “They’re sensitive.”

“Good sensitive?” Scott’s hands were already sliding back to Kurt’s waist, and Kurt breathed in sharply.

“Yes,” He whispered. It was wrong to take pleasure from his penance, Kurt told himself, but Scott traced them lightly, teasingly, and Kurt couldn’t help arching into the touch, a breathless moan escaping his lips.

Kurt went for Scott’s shirt, unlacing it with surer fingers than he had his own, pulling it off and throwing it to the side. Scott watched Kurt undress him with heated eyes, and Kurt wished he knew what Scott was thinking.

Scott’s breath hitched as Kurt slid a slow hand across his stomach, muscles clenching there.

“Come here,” He said, pulling Kurt so they lay pressed together again. He kissed Kurt as reverently as Kurt had touched him, and then suddenly flipped their positions, so Scott was looming above Kurt, pressing him down into the mattress, and Kurt felt inexplicably trapped. It’s a heady feeling, Kurt thought, to lose control. Scott’s arms were either side of his head, and Kurt’s world became nothing but the warmth and pressure of Scott surrounding him, holding him down, smiling at him with the look of a hunter who has caught his prey.

Slowly, so Kurt could see what he was doing, Scott reached for the button of Kurt’s pants, searching Kurt’s face for any signs of discontent. Kurt was nervous - a little terrified - but he pushed his hips up into Scott’s wandering hand, and the way Scott squeezed in return made his head swim.

Kurt made a pained sound at the loss of contact as Scott moved away and took a moment to just look at Kurt. Kurt felt a sudden vulnerability at the way he was sprawled on his back half-bare, his chest a graveyard of long scars, legs spread indecently so Scott could kneel between them.

“Scott,” Kurt said, his tone resigned. He made a face when Scott kept staring, but Scott just smiled at him.

“You are beautiful,” Scott said reverently. Kurt fidgeted under the attention, face flushing because he could push the words away, but Scott’s _tone_ , heavy with significance and genuine tenderness, brought tears to Kurt’s eyes. He tried to draw his knees together but Scott touched a hand gently to Kurt’s thigh, stilling him, and Kurt’s breath hitched as he waited.

“If we had time,” Scott added, never taking his eyes from Kurt’s face, “I would have you in a thousand ways.”

“I would let you,” Kurt whispered, settling his hand over Scott’s. Kurt heard Scott inhale sharply, and then Scott reached again and undid the button and, meeting Kurt’s wide eyes, took Kurt in his hand for the first time.

Kurt threw his head back and cried out, thrusting up into Scott’s hand, and he could feel Scott’s eyes burning into his, making everything more intense. “Oh,” Kurt gasped, “Scott, I - ”

“You’re wild for it,” Scott observed, looking at Kurt in awe, moving his thumb agonizingly slowly over the head of Kurt’s cock. “Tell me how it feels, sweetheart.”

Kurt bit his lip hard at the endearment, and everything felt fast and hot and out of his control. It took a moment for Scott to get the angle right, and Kurt watched his brow furrow in concentration as Scott touched him clumsily, eyes flickering up to Kurt’s face, almost apologetic. Kurt could feel when Scott moved his hand with more confidence, long strokes from base to tip, and Kurt made an involuntary and desperate noise.

“Good,” Kurt managed to gasp, “so good, Scott.” Scott leaned down to kiss him sweetly, and Kurt could have been fooled by Scott’s display of innocence had he not started stroking Kurt faster, leaving Kurt to moan helplessly against Scott’s lips.

Kurt reached between them, but Scott was quicker, letting go of Kurt and shoving his own pants off his hips in record time, throwing them without care on the floor. Kurt lifted his hips so Scott could discard his pants too, and then just _looked_.

They’d seen each other naked before when they’d gone swimming, but this was the first time Kurt had been allowed the luxury of staring without fear. Kurt didn’t realize that he’d licked his lips until Scott laughed softly at the scrutiny, and Kurt bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smile.

Kurt could feel Scott’s gaze sweeping his body too and flushed, hyper-aware of the scars winding around his legs, arms, chest. Kurt knew he was thin; conscious of his narrow waist, conscious of everything Scott might look at and find lacking in a lover. Scott felt for him enough that he would risk doing _this_ for Kurt, but Kurt could not help feeling he was not worth the risk, not worth Scott’s reverence.

“Perfect, Kurt,” Scott told him sincerely, and a warm feeling grew in Kurt’s chest.

“Du bist so schön,” Kurt responded shyly, and was delighted to see Scott blush in response.

Scott took one of Kurt’s hands as he moved so he was on top again, interlinking their fingers and pressing their hands beside Kurt’s head. He leaned down to kiss Kurt hard and thorough as he started moving them together, reaching down to take them both in hand and Kurt couldn’t stop /moaning/, little desperate noises that made Scott gasp against his mouth and stroke them faster, Kurt’s name the only word on his lips, and it quickly became hard to concentrate on kissing when Kurt felt like he was shaking apart.

A thought suddenly struck Kurt, born from the tales of immorality he’d been told, intended as a warning, and Kurt felt both satisfaction and revulsion in using it for his own selfish, immoral ends.

His own father had called it disgusting, depraved, degrading; but then, Kurt had already passed that point, thinking these thoughts of insurmountable sin. He’d passed that point when he dared to ask Scott how he felt about him, when Scott kissed him, when they had tumbled into bed together today. It was too late for Kurt.

“Wait,” He said, and Scott stopped, hand stilling, eyes questioning.

“Is everything alright?” Scott asked in a whisper. There was no need to be quiet, but the whisper was thrilling in an intimate way, like nothing else mattered besides the two of them hearing it.

Kurt opened his mouth a few times before he could bring himself to say it, thoughts of depravity chaotic in his head, but Scott started to look worried and kissed Kurt’s cheek, asking what was wrong.

“I want you inside me,” Kurt said in one breath. His grip tightened on Scott’s hand, blood rushing to his face, and a wave of heat flooded his body at the vulgarity of it. Kurt wanted it more than anything.

Scott’s breath hitched. “You’d let me have you?”

Kurt couldn’t meet Scott’s eyes as he said, “I’d let you have anything. Everything."

Scott reached for him, tipping Kurt’s chin up with gentle fingers. He made sure Kurt was looking at him when he said, "I _adore_ you.”

“And I, you,” Kurt replied, cheeks pink. It was still a precious thing to say it out loud. Kurt didn’t think he could ever express to Scott just how much he meant to him in words, but the way Scott trailed his fingers over Kurt’s cheek spoke of devotion, and Kurt knew his expression betrayed all he was feeling, gazing up at Scott like he was Kurt’s whole world. He let his hand trail down Scott’s neck and pretended his fingers weren’t shaking.

“Are you sure?” Scott asked, voice tinged with nervous anticipation. He rubbed a thumb over Kurt’s cheekbone, and Kurt leaned into it, reaching up to cradle Scott’s face in turn.

“I need you, Scott,” Kurt said fervently. He suddenly felt himself shake all over again, tears threatening to spill over. Scott let his hand drop from Kurt’s face, and Kurt could see his eyes were wet too.

“Okay,” Scott said, biting his lip and blinking hard to stave off tears. “Okay,” He repeated quietly like a reassurance, and leaned down to kiss Kurt - kissed Kurt’s cheeks and kissed his lips, sweet and gentle; leaned their foreheads together and Kurt could see all the colors in Scott’s eyes, abruptly desperate to commit them to memory. It was so rare that he saw Scott’s eyes, and Kurt wished he could see them forever like this, dark and full of devotion.

Their pace had slowed, but Kurt felt Scott twitch against his thigh when he traced delicate fingers over his neck, pressing gently against the marks Scott left there and swallowing audibly at the way Scott’s eyes filled with something darker, something possessive. A thrill went through Kurt when he realized Scott _liked_  it, seeing his claim on Kurt and knowing Kurt belonged to him.

Trying to focus, Scott bit his lip hard and tried to ignore the way Kurt was thrusting up in small movements against him. “We need something to - to slick the way,” Scott said, voice breaking on a moan as Kurt’s nails bit into his shoulder. Kurt remembered how he had felt when he had learned men could join this way too; how he had guiltily thought of Scott and wondered, always wondering -

“I think there’s oil in the cupboard,” Scott added, regretfully maneuvering himself upright and climbing off the bed. Kurt made a noise at the loss, and Scott let go of his hand at the latest possible moment. Kurt pushed himself up the bed and laid his head on the pillow, heart hammering at the thought of what they were going to do.

He watched Scott walk across the room and could barely hear himself think, unable to concentrate on anything but Scott, thoughts of depravity fading and replaced by a deep yearning need that intimidated Kurt in its intensity. When Scott returned, his eyes were full of the same fire, but there was something more, soft and light and Kurt felt unworthy of having such a gaze directed at him.

Scott moved between Kurt’s legs again, putting the bottle he retrieved to the side and leaning over Kurt to kiss him. Scott took Kurt’s hand - neither of them wanted to let go for long - and so Scott felt the way Kurt tensed when he started moving down Kurt’s body.

Kurt breath hitched when Scott smoothed a hand over his hip. “It’s just me,” Scott reassured, and smiled when Kurt tried to relax. He squeezed Kurt’s hand once and let go.

Then Scott’s big hands were on Kurt’s thighs, pushing them apart, encouraging Kurt to spread his legs so Scott could - _Gott im Himmel_ , Kurt thought hysterically, and moaned weakly. Scott stroked the sensitive skin of Kurt’s inner thighs with his thumbs, looking at Kurt earnestly with pupils blown wide.

Kurt took a deep breath and nodded, unsure what exactly Scott was going to do but trusting Scott with his life, with this. He started trembling, feeling vulnerable and inexplicably scared, and Scott pressed a kiss to his thigh.

Scott pushed at him a little more, encouraging Kurt to lean against the wall so he could see, lifting Kurt’s trembling legs so his feet were flat on the mattress, and Kurt was so distracted by the way Scott’s eyes were devouring him whole that he almost didn’t notice Scott opening the bottle and pouring the liquid on his fingers.

“Scott,” Kurt gasped, breath coming faster and faster, because they were actually doing this, Scott was going to put his fingers inside him, and then he was going to -

Scott shushed him gently, abruptly ending Kurt’s panicked train of thought. “What are you scared of?” Scott asked, tone so soft Kurt thought he could cry again. Scott was rubbing Kurt’s thigh in a reassuring yet maddening way, and Kurt took a couple of deep breaths.

“Pain,” Kurt blurted out, which wasn’t what he wanted to say at all - he was afraid of being punished for his sin, afraid Scott wouldn’t want him anymore; maybe Kurt _was_ a little afraid of the pain, but he was also certain that he would do anything for Scott, trusted that Scott would never hurt him.

“I’ll go slow,” Scott promised, and pressed a slick finger to Kurt’s hole.

Kurt whimpered, hands fisting in the sheets at his sides. He opened his mouth to speak and Scott started rubbing, spreading the oil and massaging gently until Kurt was breathing easier, eyes fixed on Scott’s and feeling a heady wave of heat surge through him.

Scott waited for Kurt to nod before he slid a finger inside him, all the way to the second knuckle and they both moaned at the feeling.

“Oh God, you’re tight inside,” Scott breathed, closing his eyes momentarily before he opened them to watch Kurt, moving his finger gently.

Kurt didn’t know how to describe the feeling. His eyes were wide but already he could feel himself adjusting to the intrusion, focusing on the way Scott was flushed and staring at Kurt in awe. It burned in an odd way, but Scott was careful, and soon all Kurt could focus on was the pressure inside him, a feeling that was strange but getting better by the second as Scott touched him more confidently.

“How does it feel?” Scott said in hushed tones, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Strange,” Kurt admitted. “But it - it’s good, I want to.” Kurt bit his lip against a moan when Scott got more oil and slid two fingers in together, and Kurt’s breath hitched as Scott moaned at the feeling, curling his fingers just enough to make Kurt squirm down for more.

Scott was endlessly patient: touched Kurt gently to ground him when it was too much, murmured to Kurt to calm him when Kurt’s breathing got erratic, and Kurt could barely breathe with it, tipping his head back into the pillows and gasping.

“You’re being so good, Kurt,” Scott said soothingly, moving two fingers inside Kurt and touching his thigh apologetically when Kurt winced. It was starting to feel so good, and Kurt wanted to rock down onto Scott’s fingers, but he complied when Scott told him to lie still.

He opened Kurt up devastatingly slowly, letting Kurt breathe and get used to every movement, coaxing Kurt open until Kurt was clenching around three fingers, sloppy with oil and breathless with how good it felt to have Scott’s fingers inside him, filling him.

Kurt felt hot all over, desperately hitching his hips back onto Scott’s fingers. He whimpered when Scott splayed a hand across his hips, keeping him still, holding him down. He was helpless to do anything but take it, moaning every time Scott moved his hand because he could feel everything and do nothing. It was thrilling and freeing all at once.

Scott suddenly brushed something inside Kurt, setting his whole body alight with sensation and white-hot pleasure, and Kurt choked out a sob and arched his back, pushing back onto Scott’s fingers, taking a breath to steady himself and crying out when Scott touched him there again.

For a moment, all Kurt could say was Scott’s name, pleading, tears forming in his eyes as he desperately thrust down onto Scott’s fingers in search of the blinding feeling that felt like lightning.

“What is it?” Scott said worriedly, making to withdraw his fingers, and Kurt grabbed Scott’s wrist, stopping him from moving.

“Don’t stop,” Kurt choked out. “ _Bitte_ , don’t ever stop."

Scott looked at Kurt’s face and smirked, and it was almost too much for Kurt to bear, tense with anticipation. Scott started thrusting his fingers in earnest, watching Kurt’s face intently.

Kurt couldn’t possibly concentrate on anything else but the pressure of Scott’s fingers inside him, filling him over and over, so when Scott asked him breathlessly if he was alright it was an effort to summon the words.

"Full,” Kurt managed, arching his back and panting. He didn’t want to come yet, wanted Scott inside him so badly it hurt, and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to hold off.

When he opened them again Scott was leaning over him, catching Kurt’s lips in a desperate hard kiss that they evened out into slow and thorough, chasing each other’s lips over and over. Kurt wound his hand into Scott’s hair and pulled, and Scott groaned against Kurt’s mouth and carefully took his fingers from Kurt, catching them on Kurt’s rim to hear him moan.

Kurt made a pained noise at the loss. “Want you,” He whispered against Scott’s lips. He felt suddenly insecure - even though Scott had spent what felt like an eternity preparing him, hearing him, watching him - that Scott wouldn’t want him like this; could change his mind at a moment’s notice. Kurt lowered his eyes self-consciously.

“You’re amazing,” Scott breathed, tracing a reverent hand down Kurt’s face, fingers following the thin lines of Kurt’s scars. Kurt bit his lip and didn’t say anything, feeling desperately undeserving of such praise. Scott was always unashamed in his tender adoration, eyes fixed on Kurt like he was the only thing that mattered in Scott’s world. Kurt felt himself going pink. He could never fathom what he had done to inspire such devotion in Scott; to have earned such meaning in Scott’s life and Scott’s heart.

Scott shifted against him, and Kurt bucked his hips into the touch, mouth falling open, but Scott didn’t linger. He looked into Kurt’s eyes and smiled widely, seeming so happy that Kurt couldn’t help but grin in return, thoughts of depravity and the reality outside Scott’s house far beyond his reach. It was too much to think about just having Scott like this, getting to watch him fall apart as he took Kurt apart in turn.

“Do you still want…” Scott trailed off like he was expecting Kurt to fill in the space, but Kurt couldn’t say the words either.

“Yes,” Kurt said breathlessly instead, anticipation surging through him in waves.

They were both breathing fast when Kurt leaned up and kissed Scott; ran his hands all over him, everywhere he could reach, and Scott arched into it, bit at Kurt’s lips in retaliation until they were panting and _wanting_. Scott looked at Kurt with a question in his eyes and Kurt nodded and felt the way Scott shivered against him.

Scott shifted above Kurt, started guiding his cock to Kurt’s hole, and Kurt took shaky breaths, trembling even as he tilted his hips up invitingly. He felt blunt, slick pressure nudge against him and moaned weakly, prompting Scott to kiss him softly, again and again until Kurt could breathe.

Kurt lifted his legs to wrap them around Scott’s waist, feet resting at the small of Scott’s back, and Scott started moving shallowly when Kurt took a deep breath and nodded. Scott looked at him fearfully when Kurt made a short, pained noise.

“I’m ready,” Kurt promised, face earnest and open. Scott looked hesitant still, though he was biting his lip in concentration. “Please,” Kurt added softly, “I need you.”

Scott leaned down and kissed Kurt as he started pushing inside him, swallowing Kurt’s noises, and Kurt’s heart thudded in his chest as he tried to breathe through it, staring blindly at the ceiling when Scott hid his face in Kurt’s neck, breathing fast. Scott’s hand was shaking when he touched his fingers gently to Kurt’s cheek.

Kurt could feel every inch of Scott pressing inside him and he didn’t think it’d ever stop, biting his lip to stop a whimper of pain. It was so much _more_ than three fingers, and when Scott finally bottomed out inside Kurt with a drawn-out moan, gasping, “Kurt, oh my God, _Kurt_ ,”

Kurt was panting, head lolled to the side on the pillow as he gasped soundlessly.

“Wait,” He said desperately, clutching at Scott’s shoulders to ground himself. The stretch felt strange and vaguely uncomfortable, but he focused on Scott instead, the pretty blush spreading down his chest, the way his hair was damp with sweat and falling over his forehead. Kurt brushed Scott’s hair back and ran his hands over Scott’s shoulders, trying to reassure him.

“Is it - ” Scott started, eyes fixed on Kurt’s face, taking deep breaths and steadying himself despite the feverish look in his eyes. His arms were shaking with the effort to keep himself still, “Are you - ”

Kurt interrupted him, because Scott always assumed the worst, and Kurt knew somehow he just had to wait. “I need a moment,” Kurt said quietly, shifting beneath Scott and uncomfortably aware of Scott inside him, pressure thick and unyielding. They breathed together and Kurt felt the burn fading, felt the stretch becoming pleasurable.

It was a sin, Kurt thought. It felt too good to be anything else.

He circled his hips experimentally, hearing Scott’s sharp intake of breath and smiling faintly. Kurt felt so full, and overwhelmed that Scott was inside him, filling him up so perfectly Kurt knew he wouldn’t ever feel whole again.

“God, Kurt,” Scott bit out. Kurt could feel him twisting his fingers in the sheets next to his head, and reached up to take one of Scott’s hands, interlocking their fingers and squeezing them.

“You can move,” Kurt said, voice catching as he shifted and felt Scott, all of him inside, as close as they possibly could be and somehow not close enough.

Scott thrust shallowly at first, slowly and carefully, but the first time he drew all the way out the head of his cock caught on Kurt’s rim, drawing a gasping moan from Kurt, and Scott thrust forward again harder in response, his bed creaking with the movement.

Kurt whimpered, tightened his legs around Scott, and Scott leaned down to kiss him as he started thrusting in earnest, swallowing Kurt’s little breathy noises because it felt better than Kurt could ever have imagined, having Scott like this. Kurt rocked his hips up to meet Scott’s thrusts and Scott made a desperate sound, fingers tightening on Kurt’s.

They panted into each other’s mouths, quickly losing the concentration necessary to kiss, eyes wide and trusting and overwhelming, and Kurt didn’t want Scott to ever stop looking at him like that; like he was the most precious thing Scott had ever seen.

Kurt was loosely grasping at Scott’s shoulder, nails dragging down Scott’s back as Scott thrust in earnest, unable to hold back his noises. It was still slow but so deep, and when he threw his head back Scott’s eyes fastened on his throat, on the marks proclaiming Kurt belonged to him.

“Mine,” Scott whispered fiercely, punctuating the word with a hard thrust, eyes burning into Kurt’s, and Kurt felt a thrill of longing as Scott moved deeper inside him.

“Yours,” Kurt gasped in return, moaning at the ache as Scott pressed distracted kisses to his neck.

Kurt’s voice broke on a sob as Scott brushed that _spot_ inside him again, setting him alight and for a second Kurt lost himself, arched his back and clutched at Scott and begged.

“Scott - oh, _oh_  - please, I need it, do it again,” Kurt gasped.

Scott’s pupils dilated until there was just a thin ring of hazel left, and Kurt felt Scott pause, saw him biting his lip hard to hold himself back.

“Do you have any idea how you look right now, how you sound, God, Kurt - ”

“Please,” Kurt begged, sobbed again when Scott thrust shallowly. Scott moved a hand to Kurt’s hip, and Kurt whimpered when Scott’s thumb brushed over his scars again.

“Is it good?” Scott asked, and though his voice was rough and made Kurt bite his lip, there was an undertone of caution. Scott was always so careful, Kurt thought, and particularly so when Kurt didn’t want him to be.

“ _Yes_ , Scott, please - ”

Scott used the hand on Kurt’s hip for leverage, the pressure making Kurt’s breath hitch sharply, and then he changed his angle and Kurt could do little more than take it, moaning helplessly, spreading his legs wider and listening to Scott pant hotly in his ear. There was a sweet, throbbing ache starting in Kurt’s thighs and tingling up his spine but it felt incredible to have Scott like this, see him, hear him so intimately, Kurt’s name like a prayer in Scott’s mouth.

Scott was covering Kurt with his body and tears welled up in Kurt’s eyes to think that he’d never have this again, so he pressed himself as close as he can, focused on the sensation and not how there were tears in Scott’s eyes too.

Kurt felt overwhelmed, hot all over, so close and squeezing Scott’s hand as he tried to hold on for a few more precious seconds. Their mouths barely brushed, not quite kissing, lips parted and breathless.

“I’m going to,” Kurt managed, and,  _Gott_ , he hadn’t even touched himself, he was going to come just from having Scott inside him.

“Come on,” Scott panted. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Kurt gasped, rocking back into the movement of Scott’s hips once more before he shuddered and came with a wail, grip tightening on Scott to the point of pain as Kurt lost himself to it, tipping his head back.

Scott’s eyes widened at the sight of him, ducked his head down and kissed Kurt’s shoulder, his neck, his cheek, thrusts becoming erratic. Kurt squeezed his trembling thighs around Scott, blinked hard against the sudden heaviness of his eyelids so he could keep his gaze fixed on Scott, beautiful and /his/.

Scott came with a broken sob, hips stuttering and stilling as Kurt moaned helplessly, turning his face against the pillow. He couldn’t help but shudder, feeling tied to Scott in a way he hadn’t before, gasping at the ceiling as Scott pressed his face into Kurt’s neck, panting.

They laid together a while, still joined, Scott a comforting weight on Kurt’s body, breathing slowly and in sync. It was like the calm before a storm, and Kurt could feel the way their hands were beginning to tremble.

Scott was gentle when he pulled out of Kurt, wincing, and Kurt moaned weakly; he hoped he’d ache for days, to be reminded of this every time he /moved/. Scott curled up next to him, pulling Kurt tight to his chest and kissing his forehead. Kurt wrapped himself around Scott in turn, one hand playing with the short hair on the nape of Scott’s neck and the other pressed against Scott’s chest, feeling his heart beating.

They laid still for endless minutes, and Kurt thought only briefly of the enormity of their sin, focusing instead on committing Scott to memory. Scott’s eyes fluttered between open and closed, caught between salvation and oblivion.

“Kurt,” Scott whispered suddenly.

“Yes?"

"It’s past midnight.” Kurt didn’t want to hear Scott’s next words. “Alex will surely be back soon, and you have to - ” The words got caught in Scott’s throat, and his eyes were pained when he looked at Kurt. “You have to go.”

Kurt felt his eyes well up with tears again, but he blinked them back. “Yes,” He repeated instead. They stared at each other, words on the tips of their tongues but unable to speak, unable to encompass the magnitude of this - what they’d just done, what they were.

Stretching, Kurt sat up, suddenly and uncomfortably aware that his stomach was sticky and his thighs were wet, and Scott rose as well, grabbing his shirt from where Kurt had discarded it and wiping Kurt down gently. He knelt on the floor between Kurt’s spread legs, and he was careful touching between Kurt’s thighs, painstakingly attentive even as Kurt flushed deeply and couldn’t look at him.

Kurt was passed the rest of his clothes in silence. Scott only pulled on pants before sitting down heavily, watching Kurt dress, running shaking hands through his tousled hair.

“Do you wish we hadn’t - ” He started, and Scott stood up so quickly Kurt startled.

“Of course not,” Scott said firmly, taking Kurt’s hands and pressing them to his lips. “For so long, I - ” He released Kurt’s hands and took a deep breath. “It was everything I wanted,” Scott said, a note of finality in his tone, and Kurt felt choked up as though he could cry again.

Kurt cleared his throat, but his voice continued to tremble. “Me too,” he said shakily, and Scott wrapped Kurt in his arms and hugged him fiercely, hiding his face in Kurt’s neck. Kurt didn’t want to let go of him, hands shaking where they clutched at Scott’s back. They held each other for a long time, but Kurt was painfully aware that they could not stay.

“Alex will be back soon,” Scott reminded Kurt eventually, drawing back without letting go of him. They looked at each other, a thousand thoughts passing between them, and Kurt took Scott’s hands in his.

“I’ll be here to say goodbye,” he said. His voice only trembled a little. Scott nodded, unable to speak.

They made it to the door, and Kurt was steeling himself to go, to leave Scott alone with his thoughts - about earlier, with Kurt’s father; about the meaning of what they had just done - but Scott drew Kurt back to him before Kurt could reach for the door handle.

Kurt knew in the morning they could not say goodbye properly, with Alex watching, so when Scott kissed him Kurt pressed them close and gave everything he had in a kiss reminiscent of their first: hesitant and soft and full of hope.

“I will see you in the morning,” Kurt said, squeezing Scott’s hands.

“Alright,” Scott said softly, and only then did he let go, letting Kurt open the door.

Kurt turned back to say something, but at Scott’s face he merely managed a smile, heart in his throat, and turned to face whatever was waiting for him at in the world.

That morning it had rained - booming thunder shook the skies, and lighting lit up the droplets that fell at the speed of bullets. But Kurt had journeyed to the other side of the city to see Scott, to say goodbye before they disappeared for God-knew how long.

Kurt’s not sure he’d felt heartbreak until that dreary morning; when he found the home abandoned and cleaned out. The remaining furniture wasn’t turned over, the drawers neatly placed back into the cabinets they belonged. They hadn’t left in haste. They had been gone long. And Kurt had realized then that the Summers brothers left the previous night, most likely hours after he had. Scott would have known; he would have understood that the evening would have been the last time they saw each other.

He had stepped into the empty home, hearing the wooden floor squeak under his weight. They had left nothing of importance behind, food was taken, clothing packed - only what they could carry, he guessed. Kurt found himself wandering to Scott’s bed, now cold where it had once been warm, shaking hands running over the sheets.

The storm outside raged on, the wind banging against the shuttered windows. Kurt believed in God; believed events occurred for reasons. He chooses to believe it was no coincidence that his attention was brought to the sill; for resting upon it was a sheet of paper - one which would surely have blown away had the window been left open.

Rising from the bed, he’d taken the paper into his grip, examining the horribly scribbled drawing and words upon it - a horse with wings, connected only by dots, he didn’t need to read the words underneath to understand Scott’s message:  ‘ _Follow the Pegasus, beyond Silverghost_.’

It was a map, Kurt knew. A map to find him, left behind on that thundering morning.

Then the rain and thunder isn’t a dream anymore.

Neither is the voice calling his name.

* * *

When Kurt wakes, Erik is shouting his name among strings of curses.

Dawn throws light onto the unexpected and chaotic state of affairs: Thunder crashes, lightning flashes, heavy rain falls in sheets.

At some point in the night, the river had burst its bank. The camp had become the river, with the water rising up to Erik’s waist as the sits upright against a tree.

Food, clothing, blankets; all their equipment floats around them. And Erik is frantically attempting to shift through the water.

“I can’t find my gun.” He announces, though Kurt hadn’t asked. Kurt jumps up, lifting his arms in an attempt to keep himself away from the rising water; but his shirt is already heavily soaked. And, like Erik, he finds his holster empty when he checks.

“Mine’s gone too,” He says, chest tightening with anxiety. Erik runs a hand over his face in frustration, muttering a new slew of curses under his breath.

“The river took ‘em.” He guesses, reaching for the equipment which had risen to the surface, “Forget it, we need to move.”

Kurt spins around himself, gathering whatever floats his way. Each lightning flare reveals a fresh tableau of chaos.

~~~

In the distance lies a forest. Beyond the forest, a mountain range. On the mountains, a storm - filled with quiet crackling of thunder and faint flashes of lightning.

In a vast plain nearly a day’s ride away, two individuals watch the sky unleash its wrath. Above them lies clear blue skies and baking hot sunshine. The heat bothers the young man in a priest’s get-up, who removes the hat atop his head to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“Can we go now, Betsy. They ain’t gonna catch up with us in that.” He complains, turning his horse in the opposite direction, ready to ride off. The woman doesn’t move, not for another passing second.

A pleasant grin rests on her lips; they had been worried for the past two days about the mismatched couple following their steps, who share their end-goal. But, with the storm, she sits more relaxed upon her saddle, and kicks her steed into gear to catch up with Warren.

The storm may delay their fellow hunter by two days, at least. Their prey lie only one day ahead.

~~~

A house sits in the middle of a plain; it’s not newly built, but it appears so with it’s bright yellow pine, and old paper - not glass - on the window.

A young man stands on the porch of the home, leaning against a post as he shakes his head at the distant storm.

“We need that kinda water _here_.” He hums, brushing his hair out of his face. His attention is taken away from the sky as a figure walks slowly across the plain, two rabbits in one hand, the other with a pistol.

“I still don’t think you should be handling that thing.” He greets his brother, taking all objects in his possession when Scott reaches their home.

“‘S just a gun, Alex. And you showed me how to use it.” He argues, moving past Alex Summers to go inside.

The Summers house is simply constructed - whitewashed wood walls and simple furniture made from pine. A rifle rests on two nails above the door, which rattles when Alex shuts the door behind them.

“Bit hypocritical to complain about me using a weapon when there’s a loaded one that could land on either of us any day now.” The younger boy points out, wandering into their small, shallow kitchen to pour coffee.

“I’m allowed to be concerned, Scott. It’s kinda my job to make sure you don’t get hurt.” Alex argues, setting Scott’s kills on the counter top. If they prepared them right, they may be able to preserve the meat for a week. When one is in hiding, food for several days is a relief. It’s a relief when living in the West. “You did a good job, though.” He compliments, patting Scott on his shoulder when he walks past.

Scott waits until his back is to Alex before he allows himself to smile with pride. Setting his cup on their kitchen table, he lifts the top of the butter mold; but, just like it had for months, the butter sinks out in a yellow splodge on the table.

“Damn it.” Scott curses, immediately trying to scoop the butter back inside. Alex only laughs from his place, leaning back against the counter.

“That’s an improvement,” He teases, “It stayed on the table this time.”

Scott lets out an exasperated sigh, though they still exchange smiles. Their lives have been more difficult since moving back into their parents’ old cottage. But it’s a home. And they’re both alive and safe. That has to count for something.

~~~

Kurt lies on the grass meadow that had greeted them just outside the woods, once the storm had passed.

Their drenched good are spread out besides him, attempting to dry against the sun’s rays.

Erik sits on his saddle, pouring water from his boot. He does eye the boy on the ground, who’s covering his eyes with his arm. But he knows better than to think Kurt’s asleep.

“Only thing that’s dry is my mouth.” He comments, a little smile tugging at his lips when Kurt groans.

“My head is killing me.”

“It’s called a hangover, kid. You’ll get use to it.” Jumping down from his horse, Erik wanders to the young boy and kicks at his leg, getting Kurt to remove his arm and look up.

“You remember nothing from last night?” He clarifies. Kurt goes to nod, but is only reminded of the pounding against his brain.

“I remember Xavier. Then my...dreams. And then rain.”

Humming, Erik nods. He’ll accept that answer. It’s best, he figures, that Kurt doesn’t recall their drunken conversation. As Erik begins gathering their supplies, Kurt pushes himself off the ground, shaking his still-damp arms out. He watches Erik for a beat, knowing full well that their items won’t be dry for another day if they were to leave them out. But Kurt doesn’t want to waste a day to get to Scott.

The boy rubs the back of his neck, wandering over to Nacht-Crawler - the stallion had been on edge the entire morning. Patting the animal’s shoulder, his eyes move back to Erik, watching the older man unravel a knotted rope. Then, pushing through the pounding in his head, an idea presents itself.

“Give me that rope.” He commands.

Less than five minutes later, the pair are riding across the meadow with the rope tied like a washing line, stretched between the two horses. All their wet gear is tied to it, allowing them to dry as they ride. It’s both practical and ridiculous. But Erik just smiles at Kurt; almost proud.

“Not bad, kid.”

~~~

“I must have been your age when I joined Charles’ group.” Erik speaks up as they gather their belongings from the rope, two hours after they had set out, “Back then it had just been the two of us.”

Kurt listens to Erik with his back turned, his brows pinched together. Erik speaks of Charles with hostility in his tone; like they are enemies. But, from what Kurt can recall from the night before, Xavier spoke to Erik as if they were friends. Lovers, perhaps. Kurt doesn’t recall a lot from their night, but he does remember Charles’ comment: ‘ _You would love to_.’

He knows from experience, two men do not speak to each other with those comments if they only have a platonic bond.

“We both had the same idea, at the time.” Erik continues, “That outlaws should be given second chances; people like him and myself, who made a mistake once and were threatened with death as a result.”

“So what happened?” The boy dares to question, turning to face Erik. “Why did you leave?”

Erik stays quiet for a moment; either finding the right words, or debating whether to speak the truth. “We had different ideas about freeing and protecting those kids.” He eventually answers.

Kurt knows he could be lying. But he listens close to his tone, how soft and almost regretful his words sound. Kurt decides to believe it as the truth.

Turning back to his horse, Kurt lifts himself back onto the saddle, and handles the reins as he examines the woodland before them. Erik claimed this to be Silverghost. The forest Kurt had paid Erik to get him to. The forest that hides Scott from the world.

They hadn’t been followed - or if they had, their shadows had been far behind. Erik had figured that Charles’ group had been trapped in by the storm; they would catch up, he knew. But Erik liked to tell himself that they had a few hours of a head start. He didn’t tell Kurt that it was a guess.

So it’s a surprise to Kurt when, now on a higher angle, he spots a pair of stallions hidden among the brush of the forest.

“Erik, who do those belong to.” He asks, gesturing to the animals as Erik steps forwards. He follows the older man into the forest, but keeps some distance as he walks up to the horses. Both have their reins attached, tied to trees as temporary posts, and empty saddles still strapped to their backs. It doesn’t take Erik a minute to know who they belong to.

“We need to get moving.” Is the older man’s reply, and Kurt turns in his saddle when Erik dashes back to his horse.

“Who do they belong to?” He repeats his question, more fear dripping into his tone.

“Bounty hunters.” Erik answers, “You know what that means?”

“They hunt bounty?”

Erik pulls his horse up besides Kurt, and rummages in his saddlebag. “They hunt people.” He pulls out the wanted poster he’d kept hidden for their journey, “They hunt Scott. Alex. Blood. Money.”

He presses the paper into Kurt’s chest, and the young boy takes a hard look at the drawing of Scott. At the words _Dead or Alive_.

His breathing becomes uneven and his voice shakes as he reads aloud, “Wanted dead, or-”

“Dead or dead, kid.”

Kurt takes a beat to process. “And you knew about them.”

“Of course I did, bounty hunters know each other, we-”

“I was leading you to him.” Kurt interrupts, crumpling the paper in his fists, “You’re a hunter and you...you _tricked_ me. Wanted to bring me here so I could let you find them and take him in-”

“Kurt!” Erik’s voice cuts in, “That’s not what’s going on anymore.”

“Anymore!” The boy repeats, his voice rising in anger.

“Listen to me!” Erik’s shout has Kurt flinch back, but he holds the older man’s stare. “I won’t lie to you. I was using you - was! But, I saw how you talked about this boy of yours. I saw how you care and I,” He trails off for a beat, keeping the words, _I understand_ , on his tongue. “I don’t care about the cash on his head. Or on his brother’s. I just want to get you to him. Safe. Like you asked me to.”

Kurt’s anger, gradually, begins to ease. Erik has lied to him before. He could have been lying to Kurt their entire trip. But, perhaps like a fool, Kurt decides to trust his word.

Watching the boy’s expression soften, Erik turns his attention to the woods ahead. “Now, these people,” He gestures to the hunter’s stallions, “they don’t want that. I don’t know how they found where your boy was, but they’re here. And they will kill him. So we need to move, now.”

Kurt looks to the animals, his lips pursing together. But he nods, grabbing tighter onto Nacht-Crawler's reins. “Lead me through.”

Erik doesn’t waste time kicking his horse into motion.

~~~

Scott is cleaning their empty coffee pot out in the sink while Alex attempts to preserve their meat when there’s a knock at their door. Stiffing up, Scott drops the pot and looks fearfully to the front of the home.

The brothers share a look, and Alex motions to their bedroom a room over. Scott disappears around the hall a second later. They were prepared to be found. They didn’t expect it to be so soon.

Smoothing his hair back, Alex takes a breath before calling out, “Who is it?”

He steps to the door, reaching up for the rifle as he hears, “Warren Worthington. Reverend Warren Worthington.” Alex drops his arm at the title. “Sorry to bother you, we’re looking for a man by the name of Smith-”

Alex hesitantly opens the door, just enough to see through the crack. Warren removes his hat and smiles; all calm and polite. His black suit and white dog collar hides his sharp shooting identity. Alex takes a second to think, taking in the man’s appearance. Then, slowly, he opens the door a bit more.

“There aren’t any Smiths here, minister.” He informs, offering space into the house, “Won’t you come in?”

“Sir, I thank you,” Warren starts, eyes darting to behind the tall blond. For a moment, a smile quirks at the corners of his lips. “But I will decline.”

When he nods behind Alex, he turns to find Scott in the hall, his pistol pointed at Warren’s forehead.

“Scott!” Alex blurts, hurrying over to take the weapon from the boy’s hand. “I’m very sorry, minister.” He apologizes, narrowing his eyes to his younger brother. Scott just keeps his jaw tight, avoiding his brother’s gaze to focus on the stranger at their doorstep.

“That’s alright, sir. No one can be too careful out here.” Warren nods, placing his hat back upon his head. “The Good Lord has me on an errand, so I’ll be on my way. Bless you and your son-”

“Brother.” Alex corrects. Warren just smiles wider.

“You and your brother. Good day.” Warren turns on his heel, leaving the Summers’ porch. Alex steps outside, Scott close behind, and they watch at Warren heads back to the forest at the edge of their property.

“My God, Scott,” Alex shakes his head, letting out a frustrated breath, “Germany is far away. Nobody knows where we are. Nobody knows _who_ we are.”

“He knows we’re brothers.” Scott argues, “And he knows my name. He knows we’re here.”

“He’s a lost man on a mission in the West, you heard him. People wander through the West. It’s what they do out here.” Alex snaps, his attention snapping to skies when thunder rumbles in the distance. “Rain’s coming. I need to finish the fence in the back.”

Alex shoves past his brother, leaving Scott alone on the porch to watch Warren disappear into the woods. He knows trouble is coming. But, he only turns into the house and shuts the door.

~~~

Kurt and Erik wind through the silver birch trees of the forest. It’s oddly quiet, lacking of bird song or the chirp of crickets. Kurt’s hand shake against his reins, his doubts and fears filling his head. So he drowns them out with his words:

“Thou shall not be afraid of any terror of the night,” _He’s fine_ , “nor for the arrow that flyeth by day.” _No one knows where he is, no one but you_ , “For the pestilence that waketh in Darkness,” _He’s alive_ , “nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon day,” _He’s waiting for you._

Erik doesn’t speak, letting the boy voice his worry through his religion. The West takes much from a man - leaves him bone dry and beaten. He won’t let the West take anything from this boy. Not from his boy.

~~~

Behind the Summers house lies a small golden wheat field. In the middle stands a ragged scarecrow. And at the back of the wheat field, crouched low, is Betsy Braddock and Warren Worthington. Warren opens his long case, and pulls out it’s long rifle from the snug red velvet inside.

He hands the gun to Betsy, who gently lifts the weapon up and looks across the field. About fifty yards, Alex is setting up another board of their makeshift fence. He rolls his sleeves before he returns to shoving the board securely into the ground.

Betsy places a bullet in the chamber of the rifle. The sun is beating down hard. She gages the distance between herself and Alex, adjusting the sights and aiming. Alex wipes sweat from his brow. She places her finger on the trigger, but hesitates when the house’s back door opens. Scott wanders outside, his hand shielding his eyes as he offers to help to his brother.

Betsy focuses on Scott, then turns to Warren. The two share a silent agreement.

~~~

Erik and Kurt continue their way through the silver birch, Kurt ducking under a branch as they ride out into the clearing. It takes Kurt a good second to realize where they are, and he jumps down from Nacht-Crawler. In the distance lies a house, washing line, and wheat field. It’s too far to see people, but Kurt knows. It’s the Summer house.

Alex is waving his brother away in that field, Betsy and Warren are hidden fifty yards back. But to Kurt, it’s peaceful and beautiful. “I’ve made it.” He says, in disbelief and joy. Erik pulls his horse up behind the kid, his eyes scanning the land for the hunters he knows are out there.

“Are you sure this is it?” He questions. Kurt ignores his words, letting out a relieved sigh.

“Exactly what I imagined.”

As he looks towards the house, Erik dismounts and unhooks the rope from the saddle which - hours prior - hung their soaked supplies. He walks towards Kurt, and makes a small loop in the end to tie Kurt’s hands into.

“Erik-” Kurt starts, yelping when he pulls the rope tight and grabs the scruff of his neck. Kurt freezes. It makes it easier on Erik’s part; the boy moves freely as he moves him back towards the forest. It’s not until he pushes Kurt onto the ground that the boy starts struggling. “Erik! What are you doing?” He questions, pulling against the rope as Erik ties his end around a birch tree on the edge of the plain.

Kurt wriggles against it, desperate to escape. “Erik, let me go!” He snaps, glaring up at the man when he rounds back to face Kurt. It’s not until he unsheathes his hunting knife that Kurt goes stiff again. It’s not out of fear, however. He holds Erik’s glare, before simply shutting his eyes. “Make it quick.”

“I’m not gonna kill you.” Erik response, looking down at the boy incredulously. He kneels down, and reaches behind Kurt to cut the rope off just beyond the knot. “I’m keeping you alive. There are people out there ready to shoot anything on sight. And we don’t have any gun between us, now.”

He rises, placing the knife back into it’s holder. Then, with a beat, he removes his hat and places it on top of Kurt’s head. “Why.” Kurt’s tone pains the older man - he sounds defeated.

“To keep the sun from getting too hot.” He replies, moving back to his horse.

“You can’t leave me here.” Kurt tries, “I’m here for Scott! I’ll protect him or die trying.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Erik murmurs, grabbing Nacht-Crawler’s rein’s as he climbs atop his horse again. Kurt can only watch him ride across the plain, towards the Summers’ house.

~~~

Scott, rather than going inside after Alex had dismissed his help, leans against the back of the house to watch his brother work.

Betsy keeps him in the sights of the rifle, her finger resting on the trigger. But, when Scott turns his head to the plains, the boy moves. He sees something in the distance. Betsy’s too focused to see why. As Scott moves, the scarecrow blocks her view momentarily. Alex lifts his head from the fence when Scott speaks to him, and the blonde straightens up to follow his brother’s gaze.

When Scott suddenly disappears into the house, Betsy lowers the gun. She looks back to Alex, re-positioning herself, when Warren jumps besides her, his hand gripping her arm.

“The bastard’s here.” He murmurs to her, low.

“Then go take care of him.” She responds, nodding to the pistol at Warren’s side. The man studies her, but the increasing gallop of horses has Warren rising to his feet and making his way back to the front of the home.

Betsy lifts the rifle, Alex now in her sights again.

Alex picks up another heavy board, moving it into space. Betsy steadies herself, her finger returning to the trigger. When Alex straightens himself up, ready to push the board into the soil, she pulls it. A loud bang echoes across the plain.

Inside the home, Scott jumps away from the window he’d torn paper down to watch the strange figure across their property as he grew closer. He listens close, the echo of the gunshot still audible as a minute passes.

~~~

Kurt, still struggling against the rope graining against his wrists, freezes at the shot.

His head swings up, focusing on the house.

~~~

Once the home was within walking distance, Erik abandoned the horses on the plains. He doesn’t know where Betsy and Warren are. He just knows they are here. Like a sixth sense, he can feel the other’s presence.

He thinks, for a moment, that he’ll reach the Summers siblings in time. That he can warn them, prepare them for the attack which is surely coming. But when the undeniable gunshot rings in his ears, he skids to a halt. He’s too late. He had been too late from the moment they arrived.

~~~

Betsy lowers her gun, and fifty yards away, Alex Summers falls to the ground.

Erik can see the front door of the house open.

First, he sees a young boy step out onto the porch. Their eyes meet - the boy doesn’t know him, he’s never seen Erik in his life. But Erik knows him, from the poster at the trading post, from Kurt’s descriptions. Scott Summers stands before him, just feet away.

Second, he sees an unfinished fence extending from the side of the house.

Third, the body of an older boy fall to the ground; he’d been just at the edge of the back of the home, placing the fence up.

Fourth, Scott running to the edge of the porch. He hears the terrified and anguished scream he releases. But his eyes are already taking in their surroundings, searching for the source of the bullet.

Fifth, _Warren_. Appearing from the edge of the field, pistol in hand, and Scott in his sights.

“Inside,” The word leaves his lips before he can think. Scott turns to him, his eyes red and wet. “Scott, get inside, protect yourself!” Erik repeats, moving to push the boy back up the porch. At first, Scott flinches away from the stranger, but the bullet that almost grazes his shoulder has him spinning to face the culprit. When he sees Warren reloading the gun, he rushes inside and slams the door shut.

Leaving Erik unarmed to face his old competitor.

“Erik Lehnsherr.” Warren greets, lowering his weapon. Erik knows better than to take any comfort in the action. Betsy is still there, somewhere, watching their exchange. “We’re both here for the same reason,” The blond continues, stepping over Alex’s body, “let’s go inside, grab the boy, and drag these two back for the reward. This doesn’t have to get messier.”

Erik curls his hands into fists at his side, already considering his options. He has a weapon, his knife. But Warren has a gun and faster reflexes. Additionally, his girlfriend no doubt has her rifle pointed to his back.

“I’m not here for that.” He informs, eyeing Warren’s pistol. “I promised someone I would protect that kid. I’m not killin’ him, and he’s not leaving this property.”

Warren’s smile drops, his hand twitching around his gun. “Well,” He begins, “that makes you a target.”

~~~

Kurt’s desperation to get free from the tree only increased after hearing the gunshot. He can’t block out the fearful thoughts in his head now, his eyes stinging as panic rises in his throat. Thoughts repeating, _He’s dead, They’ve killed him, You were too late, It’s your fault, Why did you wait so long_.

He breaks down into a sob, tugging his tied wrists against the tree. He only goes still at the sounds of foot - no, hoof-steps. A group of them. And, one by one, the gang emerge from the woods just feet from his right. Charles stops his girls the second he sees Kurt, hands tied and tear tracks down his cheeks.

“What happened?” He asks, shifting his horse to wander closer to the boy.

“Erik.” Is all Kurt can manage at first, his throat dry, “He said there were hunters. He didn’t want me hurt. So he left me.”

The eldest woman pulls her mare up besides Charles, her head turned in the direction of the home. Kurt thinks he recognizes her. He doesn’t know why. But he knows the two children with the group. The twins sit separately on shared saddles; the girl with a young, Asian girl, and the boy with a younger redhead.

“Kurt,” Charles brings his attention back, “how long ago was this?”

“I don’t know,” He shakes his head, tugging against the rope again, “there was a gunshot, not long ago.”

Charles looks towards the home, a frown settled deep against his lips. “Warren.” The eldest woman speaks up, the hint of an accent in her words.

“And Betsy, no doubt. They stick together.” Charles agrees, turning to the three young girls behind them. “Ororo, Jean, search for Braddock. Taking out the sharpshooter needs to be step one.”

The redhead and darkest girl look to each other, and the redhead asks, “Non-lethal?”

Charles considers it, but eventually shakes his head. “We’ve already tried. They made it clear they do not want to change their path. Do what you must.” The redhead has to lower the young boy from her saddle before the pair take off to the plains.

“Raven,” He continues, the eldest woman turning to him next, “you’re with me. We’ll find Warren first, then the Summers siblings and Erik.” The woman, Raven, nods. “Jubilee, stay with Kurt and the children.”

The remaining girl takes the job with a bright smile, and she hops down from her horse, picking up the young boy to place him on the saddle with his sister. Kurt, on the other hand, only further panics at Xavier’s command.

“You can’t leave me here, too.” He begs, “Please, I need to get out there. Scott knows me, he may hurt himself if he’s surrounded by strangers, /bitte/-”

“Kurt, Erik was right. It’s too dangerous for someone who doesn’t have experience dealing with these types of situations.” Charles’ frown only deepens, “I’m sorry. We’ll return once things are sorted out.”

He turns to Raven, nodding towards the plains. He takes off first, but Raven stays behind for a moment, looking back to Kurt.

When she moves down from her saddle and removes a knife from her boot, Kurt goes tense. The girl a few feet besides him speaks up, but the blood rushing to his ears blocks her out. He can only focus on this strange woman, who stalks closer.

When she drops to her knees, she speaks, “ _Sei Ruhig_.”

Hearing his mother tongue in this woman’s mouth throws him off; but it’s odd. Her pronunciation, her tone, the words all sound natural in her mouth. She’s fluent in his language.

Kurt stares up at her with awe, and he doesn’t feel her cut his hands free until his arms fall forwards. He’s moving to his feet immediately, rubbing the burning pain on his wrists. “ _Vorsichtig Wein_.” Raven speaks again, and Kurt finds himself nodding.

 _Be careful_. He can try. He can try for her. For Erik. For Scott.

While Raven climbs back onto her saddle, Kurt’s taking off for the house in a sprint.

~~~

To the left of the door, a paper window - oiled and translucent - has a hole torn through it by fingers, and Scott looks through. He can see the exchange between the strange man from the plains, and the shooter - _the Priest,_ he realizes. When the shooter aims his gun up to the stranger, Scott moves on instinct.

Pushing away from the window, he moves to the door and reaches for the gun resting above it. His fingers brush it at first, and it rattles against the poorly hammered nails. He tries again, stretching up. The moment his fingers have a secure grasp on it, he’s moving back to the window, making another hole for the rifle’s barrel.

The shooter cocks his pistol, and Scott pulls his trigger. The bullet explodes in the man’s wrist, and the stranger ducks away from the shot. The attack has the shooter’s pistol fall to the ground.

Scott can feel his lips quirk up in a grin, and he takes aim for the shooter’s head. When a gunshot fires just above his head, he pushes away from the wall, ducking down under the window. Above him, a third hole has shot through the paper. His knuckles turn white as he grips his weapon tighter. There’s another shooter.

Outside the house, Erik watches Warren drop his gun to cradle his shattered and bleeding hand. He moves for it immediately, but Warren - though injured - is still faster. He kicks the gun between Erik's legs, away from the porch. And the older man runs for it, into the plains. He should know better.

When the gun’s within fingers-reach, another shot fires too close to his hand, and Erik falls back in surprise. _Betsy_. How could he have forgotten. He struggles to move back, but Betsy takes another shot and hits her mark.

The bullet pushes through Erik’s thigh, and he shouts in pain. One hand moves to cover the wound, the other trying to push himself up. Then he feels a fist gripping his shirt, and Warren drags him to his feet.

“Hit ‘im in the head!” Warren shouts to the seemingly empty field. He knows exactly where Betsy sits; he’s helping line Erik up for the shot.

Neither men can see the gun barrel reemerging from Scott’s window. They cannot hear the boy’s panicked, ragged breaths as he aims for Warren’s back. But, before pulling his trigger, he lowers the gun to the man’s knee and fires. Warren goes down instantly, Erik with him.

First, Warren cries out again. But, rage fights pain, and he struggles back up, picking up his pistol as he does. He aims for the window, firing two shots. Scott narrowly misses both.

He moves away from the window for the wooden door, but seconds later bullets are fired there too. Two manage to break through, and Scott curls within himself, shielding himself from the splinters that fall.

Erik only watches from the ground, desperate to stop his leg from bleeding out. Warren cocks his pistol again, aiming at the door once more. Then, out of the corner of his eye, a new target comes into play. Another boy makes his way into the wheat field. “Friend of yours?” He taunts the wounded man at his feet, taking aim.

Erik only gets a glimpse of Kurt before adrenaline moves his body up onto its legs; despite the pain and blood loss, he pushes Warren’s arm away from it’s course as the trigger is pulled.

~~~

The bullet grazes past Kurt’s head, but instincts throw him to the ground. His ears ring. He feels numb. The world seems to have stopped. Shock and realization are starting to settle in; he could die. _They could all die_.

When he looks up to the house, the ringing begins to subside. But the racing beat of his heart replaces it. He’s so close. Scott’s right inside, no doubt scared out of his mind. But alive. Kurt has to tell himself Scott is still alive.

He forces his arms to move, to push himself up and keep moving. He’s come this far. Just a few more steps.

~~~

It doesn’t take much effort for Warren to regain control of his gun - his wrist may be broken, but he’s not bleeding out. Not like Erik; Betsy’s a good shot.

“You’re a real pain the ass, you know that?” Warren spits out, shoving Erik back and taking aim. When a gun goes off, however, it does not come from his barrel. Warren’s pistol falls to the ground, then his body follows. Feet away, Raven lowers the gun responsible for the fresh wound in the boy’s neck.

Fifty feet from the front of the house, within the woods, Betsy lifts her head from her rifle’s scope in shock.

~~~

Scott holds his gun close to his chest as he sits and listens - for a gunshot, for the door handle to jiggle open. Anything. He tries to calm himself down in the situation; panicking won’t help him keep a steady shot. That plan dissipates the moment he hears the back door of his home open, rapid footsteps following.

He slides up the door, aiming his rifle at the hall. The footsteps increase in pace, and his hands shake as he places his finger over the trigger. The moment Kurt rounds the hall, Scott fires.

Kurt’s not sure he can describe the feeling of the bullet forcing its way through his shoulder as anything but _burning_ ; hot metal inside his skin, setting his arm on fire. The darker boy fumbles back, hitting the wall, then the floor. He thinks he screams, but he doesn’t hear it. He can’t hear anything.

~~~

Betsy watches Raven and Charles move their way into her sight, Raven dropping from her saddle to settle next to Erik. She’s preparing to dress his wound. Betsy sees red. She takes aim once more, moving the rifle to focus on the Englishman still atop his horse; he’s staring down at Erik with concern. She breathes out, ready to fire - and then the point of a knife is pressed into her neck.

“Lower it.” A woman speaks, and Betsy slowly follow the order. Jean keeps her knife pressed against her skin, hard enough to almost draw blood. Ororo stands behind Betsy, her own gun aimed at the woman’s back. For a moment, the two girls just look to each other, coming to a decision. Betsy reaches for the sword at her side when Ororo lowers her weapon, and she looks away when Jean drives the blade into Betsy’s throat.

“Do what we must.” Jean repeats Charles’ words back, lowering the woman’s body to the ground.

“She would have continued to kill.” Ororo nods, “We had no choice, this time.”

Jean wipes her knife clean, and reaches for the other girl’s hand. Together, they make their way to the rest of their group out in the plains.

~~~

Scott stays frozen in place, keeping the rifle aimed at Kurt. He blinks once. Twice. Then he drops it, his breath hitching in a gasp. He forgets about the gunfire outside his doorstep. Forgets his brother’s dead body, lying in their family’s wheat field. For a moment, he’s back in the cold world of Europe, with it’s cloudy days and clear nights. With Kurt.

The boy from Germany, who most certainly should not be bleeding out on his floor in America.

“Kurt?” Scott murmurs, believing his eyes have betrayed him. Kurt isn’t here. He shouldn’t be here, not now.

The boy on his floor, presses a hand to his shoulder, his breathing going uneven. “You,” He attempts; his accent is deep, thick. German. “You shot me.” His tone holds disbelief and amusement. _Kurt_.

“Kurt!” Scott exclaims. Emotions flow through his mind - surprise, confusion, joy, fear - as he rushes to Kurt’s side. “Oh God,” He starts, hands hovering over the gunshot wound in the other’s shoulder; the wound _he_ gave. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were here I-” He pauses, “Why are you here, Kurt?”

The German smiles through his pain, lifting his free hand to take one of Scott’s hovering hands. “You left me a map.” He explains, “And...I go where you go. Right?”

Scott stares down at Kurt in astonishment. This beautiful, unbelievable boy, who really did travel to another world for him. “You stupid, silly boy.” Scott replies, laughter sinking into his voice.

He brushes Kurt’s hair back, and leans into the space left between them to close their lips together. Their first kiss in months. It feels like a breath of fresh air. The sun’s warmth after decades of darkness. Like _home_.

They don’t break apart until Kurt groans in the burning sensation in his shoulder. “You ran through a gunfight just to see me.” Scott shakes his head, lowering Kurt’s hand to examine the injury himself. “Thousands of ways to die, and that’s how you wanted to go?”

Kurt watches Scott as he takes in the damage of his shoulder, his smile growing in disregard to his pain. “With you, yes.” He answers.

His response has Scott pause, his expression softening. “Kurt,” He begins, looking for the words to say. But his mind goes blank. He settles for another kiss instead.

~~~

It takes a moment for Raven to properly dress Erik’s wound, given that Charles attempts to remove himself from his saddle on his own. But, once Raven helped him settled in his chair, she had moved back to stop the bleeding.

“You were an idiot.” She scolds, retrieving cloth from her saddlebag. “He kicked the gun out for Braddock to shoot you and you fell for the tactic.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ straight.” Erik defends, albeit weakly, as she applies the bandages around his thigh. But, as she cut the cloth off, the trio hear a gunshot from within the house.

“Was there another member we missed?” Charles questions.

Erik shakes his head, “Shouldn’t be.”

Charles places a hand on Raven’s shoulder, gesturing to the door, and the older woman rises to scout the perimeter of the home. Charles takes her place besides Erik, reaching down to help the man seal the cloth. Half of him expects Erik to shove him away. But he’s surprised when Erik allows his help, securing the bandages in place and sitting up.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop following us.” Erik speaks first. Charles can only smile at the comment.

“I’m very sure I told you I had this handled.” Erik takes one glance towards Warren’s body by the steps of the porch to dismiss Charles’ words. “Besides,” the Englishman continues, “you would be dead, had we not shown up.”

“That seems to be your favorite excuse whenever you find me.” Erik jokes. It gets a chuckle from the other man. Erik smiles, slightly, and lifts his hand to rest along Charles’ arm. “Thank you.” He pauses, “Charles, I-”

“Gentlemen.” Raven interrupts their conversation. She stands on the porch, one hand on the front door’s knob, the other on her gun. “Would you like to help me, or keep flirting?”

She doesn’t wait for either man to respond, her full attention going to the door before her. There were many possibilities lying behind it. For once, the realist chooses to focus on the positive outcomes.

~~~

Whatever peaceful seconds Kurt and Scott were allowed in their short moment was shattered the moment they heard the door’s handle turn. Instinctively, Kurt pressed his hand to his shoulder again, and Scott stood to his feet.

His rifle was left abandoned by the door - no time to retrieve it now. They were unarmed, one already injured. But Scott would stand his ground regardless; take the first spray of bullets to protect Kurt from just one.

Thousands of ways to die. They would go together.

The pair brace themselves when the door creaks open - a dark redhead appears, her weapon drawn and pointed towards the young boys. It only takes Kurt’s presence for her to lower the gun.

“Raven.” Kurt relaxes at the somewhat familiar face, and tension leaves Scott’s shoulders when Kurt speaks up.

“You know her?”

Kurt nods, watching Raven set her gun on the tabletop as she makes her way over.

“ _Are you alright_?” She asks. His language again.

“ _I think so. I got shot in the shoulder._ ”

“Kurt,” Scott interrupts, watching this new stranger with unease as she kneels before the boy, “who is this?”

“She’s with me.” Charles speaks from the doorway, taking control of his chair once Erik had helped wheel him inside. “Scott Summers?”

Scott takes a small step towards Kurt, his eyes dancing between the three strangers in his home. Warily, he answers, “Yes.”

“My name is Charles Xavier. I’m not here to harm you or turn you in to the law. We’re only here to help.” A huge relief seems to leave Scott’s body.

“Charles,” Raven says, “Kurt’s been hit. I need bandages and stitches.”

“Is it bad?” Erik asks, from where he leans against the doorway. Kurt perks up a bit at hearing the older man’s voice. He’s alive.

Raven shakes her head, “He got lucky. Had the bullet been aimed an inch more to the right, he’d be gone already.”

Scott feels a pang of guilt tighten in his chest. She rises and meets Charles in Scott’s kitchen, taking the bandages from his possession. Kurt uses the opportunity to take in Erik, who hadn’t moved from his place at the door. When he sees the cloth around his thigh, he decides to comment:

“You got shot.”

“So did you.” 

“Does it hurt?”

“Looks worse than it is. Let’s just focus on getting you fixed up, kid.”

“Speaking of,” Raven’s hands are on Scott’s back, already pushing him towards the doorway. “I need to work.”

She rushes everyone out.

~~~

From his porch, Scott watches Jean and Ororo emerge from the woods at the edge of his property. He didn’t need to be informed as to why there were gone; it’s no mystery why the bodies that littered his home were now gone; the stains they left on the Earth all that remained.

They would tell him where Alex was, in time. For his mental sake, he’s glad they removed the body. He’s not sure he would be able to deal with the sight just now.

Charles and Erik are on the opposite side of the porch, having a conversation of whispers and secrets between themselves. Scott’s remained alone until he heard footsteps, slow and off-beat, make their way to his side.

“You saved me.” Scott mentions. Erik exhales as he leans against the house for support - his eyes not on Jean and Ororo, but on Jubilation and the twins she’s distracting.

“I promised the idiot inside that I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you.”

Scott briefly turns away to look at the door; waiting for the moment either Raven or Kurt stepped out. For Kurt to be with him again. “You brought him to me.”

“He paid me to.”

Erik’s answers are short, simple. Rehearsed.  He had already thought through their conversation. He had planned to make sure Kurt got to him. Scott smiles, small and genuine, “Thank you.”

For a passing few minutes, Erik doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t turn back to Charles and leave, either. He stays by Scott’s side, watching the children, the still-darkening sky, taking in the scenery that would appear peaceful had one not known about the blood split on it’s soil. Scott learns that Erik’s silence is not one born of lack or desire for a conversation, but to find the right words to end it: “He loves you with all his heart. Don’t let that boy go.”

Scott lets the words sink in, Erik’s tone hitting harder than the message it sends. He’s fearful for Kurt; afraid he’ll be left alone again. Scott understands that fear, too. “I don’t intend to,” He assures, “ever again.”

Charles makes his way over, giving Erik a small nod. A mute question is asked, and Erik leaves the porch to suddenly take interest in the children and Jubilee.

Charles locks in chair into place, watching Erik kneel down and speak to the twins he had traveled days with. “Scott,” He eventually speaks up, clearing his throat to keep his voice steady, “I’m sorry about your brother. Had we gotten here sooner-”

“Had we been aware, we both would be here thanking you. It was foolish for us to believe we were gonna stay safe out here.” Scott interrupts, looking down to the Englishman. “And I do thank you. For protecting myself from those criminals. And for what your girl is doing for Kurt, inside.”

“You could have thanked me in person.” Raven speaks from the doorway, surprising both men. She smiles some, gesturing back inside the home. “He wants to see you, Summers.” Scott doesn’t waste time, moving around Charles and Raven to squeeze through the door. Raven shuts it for him, stepping out onto the porch.

“How is he?” Charles questions.

“In pain.” She responds, wiping her hands down along her pants. “He’ll live. He’s stubborn.”

“That’s not a surprise.” Charles watches Raven hesitate, looking back to the door. As if she wants to step back inside. “I was thinking,” He adds, “if the boys will allow it, the twins should stay here. This place is safe enough for anyone in hiding.” Raven only nods in agreement. “And, I believe that anyone who wishes to stay, can.” Raven eyes him then, suspicious.

“Charles,” She warns, and the Englishman only shakes his head.

“It’s an option.” He clarifies, “If you’d wish to stay with Kurt-”

“No. I made my choice nineteen years ago.” She steps down the porch without another word. Charles understands her answer clearly: she’s already said goodbye.

~~~

The twins play through the field which had contained death.

The group they once traveled with packs up without them. The West calls for them, beyond Silverghost.

Charles balances himself on his saddle with Scott’s help, thanking the boy once more.

“It’s only an option, Scott.” He tries to persuade again, giving the other one more chance to consider the offer. “But we could use someone who’s as good of a shot as you are.”

Scott takes the suggestion into consideration, but ultimately turns to Kurt for an answer. The German only smiles. “I go where you go.” He reassures, squeezing the hand intertwined with Scott’s.

“Thank you, Xavier. But, I think my place is here.” Charles nods, accepting his final answer. He glances to Kurt, whose eyes are on the only traveler separated from his group.

“I will be back.” He speaks softly to Scott, who squeezes their joined hands before letting Kurt go towards Erik.

He knows the older man can hear him approaching, though he keeps his back turned to Kurt for an extra minute as he secured his supplies.

“You here to give me a tearful goodbye?” He prods as he turns to face the scarred, foreign boy.

Kurt holds his gaze. He's confident, compared to the anxious kid he’d first met. The only man he knew the West didn't change for the worst.

“I want you to know that you are the worst company one can have on travel.” He informs, though a smile is splayed upon his lips. Erik, for once, returns it.

“You sure about this? About staying here?” His voice is quiet when he questions Kurt’s choice. But the other man doesn't need to think to nod.

“My place is with Scott.”

“And you’re sure about taking those two in?” Erik gestures to the laughing children.

Kurt doesn’t need a moment to think in order to answer, “Yes. The West is no place for a child. They deserve to grow in a home. And,” He pauses, “it’s the least I can do, considering…”

“Yeah.” Erik doesn't need Kurt to finish.

Silence settles between them. It’s hard, saying goodbye to a friend. It was difficult to say goodbye to Scott, so many nights ago. For some reason, it’s harder to say goodbye to Erik. He's more than a friend, but not a lover. He's something more. Almost like a father.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“I just did what you paid me to do.” Erik tries to dismiss.

“I paid you to get me to the forest. You did so much more.”

Erik doesn't have a retort. Taking the following silence as the end of their conversation, Erik extends his hand in farewell.

Kurt doesn't take it. Instead, he reaches up and swings his good arm around Erik’s neck, pulling the older man into a hug. It’s awkward, at first. Erik isn’t sure how to move. But, slowly, he moves his hands around Kurt’s back. The hug doesn’t last long, but they hold each other close for the few seconds it transpires. It’s secure, safe, and holds a thousand words neither men would be able to push through their lips.

When they pull away, Kurt’s eyes sting with tears, but his smile is bright. Erik hates to think he’ll miss it. As Kurt steps away, Scott walks up to take his hand again, ready to return back to the cottage in the plains.

“Erik,” Kurt adds, his voice lowered to a near whisper. As if he were sharing a secret between the two of them, “I’m home, now. You should be, too.”

At first, the older man does not understand. It’s only when the couple turns away that he feels Charles’ presence behind him.

Like he had with Kurt, he waits a lasting minute before he turns to face Charles. Saying goodbye to him once before was heart wrenching. He's not sure he can go through it again.

“There’s still a place for you here, Erik.” Charles speaks, though Erik will not face him, “I-...we would never turn you away.”

With an exaggerated exhale, Erik faces the Englishman with a tight jaw. “I know. But...I don’t think I’m ready to come back, Charles. Not yet.”

Charles only nods at his answer, solemn. But before age moves his horse back towards his girl so, Erik takes Charles’ hand and brings it to his lips.

“If it was meant to be, I will find you again.” Erik assures. Charles takes that answer with a bright smile.

He watches the group until they are swallowed by the trees of Silverghost, back on the mission no one asked them to perform.

Erik knows better than to look back at the single house in the plains. Why he does is a mystery to himself.

He finds Scott Summers, an orphan and newly-turned-single sibling, taking the little boy’s hand. Pietro, Raven had told them was his name.

The little girl, Wanda, hands Kurt Wagner a flower she had found in the field before she’s following her brother and new father inside their cottage. Kurt spares Erik a final look, a final smile, before he enters his home too.

It’s a new life for them. A new family. A new start.

Erik looks back to the forest, where Charles and his group had disappeared. He sits upon his horse, staring into the trees.

Thinking. Considering. Deciding.

He kicks his stallion into motion, following the trail of the group’s horses.

Kurt had told him there was more to life than survival.

There was family. There was love.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: future-mrs-frost.tumblr.com  
> Megan's Tumblr: bottomerik.tumblr.com  
> Megan's Ao3: archiveofourown.org/users/Enterprising  
> Leave a kudos/comment if you'd like!


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